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A  NATOL  :    A  SEQUENCE  OF 

/-%    DIALOGUES      BY     ARTHUR 

^      ^SCHNITZLER;  PARAPHRASED 

FOR     THE     ENGLISH     STAGE     BY 

GRANVILLE    BARKER 


m 


NEW  YORK:   MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
MCMXI 


Copyright  l^ii  by 
Mitchell  Kennerley 


Prtti  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Co.,  New  York 


TT  seems  that  in  a  faithful  translation  the 
peculiar  charm  of  these  dialogues  will 
disappear.  To  recreate  it  exactly  in  Eng- 
lish one  must  be  another  Schnitzler:  which, 
is  absurd.  This  is  the  only  excuse  I  can 
offer  for  my  paraphrase. 

H.  G.  B. 


8702{)S 


>• 


Anatol 

PAGE 

1  Ask  no  Questions  and  You'll  Hear  no  Stories  i 

2  A  Christmas  Present  19 

3  An  Episode  33 

4  Keepsakes  51 

5  A  Farewell  Supper  63 

6  Dying  Pangs  83 

7  The  Wedding  Morning  99 


ASK  NO  QUESTIONS  AND  YOU'LL 
HEAR  NO  STORIES 


xc 


V  ^^ 


„\^^ 


ASK  NO  QUESTIONS  AND  YOU'LL 
HEAR  NO  STORIES 


ANATOii,  an  idle  young  bachelor,  lives  in  a  charmi/ng 
■flat  in  Vienna.  That  he  has  taste,  besides  means 
to  indulge  it^  may  be  seen  by  his  rooms,  the  furni- 
ture he  buys,  the  pictures  he  hangs  on  the  walls. 
And  if  such  things  indicate  character,  one  would 
judge,  first  by  the  material  comfort  of  the  place 
and  then  by  the  impatience  for  new  ideas  which 
his  sense  of  what  is  beautiful  to  live  with  seems 
to  show,  that  though  a  hedonist,  he  is  sceptical  of 
even  that  easy  faith.  Towards  dusk  one  after- 
noon he  comes  home  bringing  with  him  his  friend 
MAX.     They  reach  the  sitting-room^  talking  . . . 

MAX.  Well,  Anatol,  I  envy  you. 

ANATOL.  My  dear  Max! 

MAX.  Perfectly  astonishing.  I've  always  said  it 
was  all  tricks.  But  he  went  off  to  sleep  under  my 
very  eyes  .  .  .  and  then  he  danced  when  you  told  him 
he  was  a  ballet  dancer  and  cried  when  you  said  his 
sweetheart  was  dead  .  .  .  and  he  sentenced  that  crimi- 
nal very  soundly  when  you'd  made  him  a  judge. 

ANATOL,.  Didn't  he? 

MAX.  It's  wizardry ! 

ANATOL.  We  can  all  be  wizards  to  some  extent. 
3 


ANATOL 

MAX.  Perfectly  uncanny. 

ANATOL.  Not  more  so  than  much  else  in  life  .  .  .  not 
more  uncanny  than  lots  we've  been  finding  out  the 
last  hundred  years.  If  you'd  suddenly  proved  to  one 
of  our  ancestors  that  the  world  went  round,  he'd 
have  turned  giddy. 

MAX.  But  this  seems  super-  natural. 

ANATOL.  So  must  anything  strange.  What  would 
a  man  think  if  he'd  never  seen  a  sunrise  before,  or 
watched  the  spring  arrive .  .  .  the  trees  and  the 
flowers  .  .  .  and  then  felt  himself  falling  in  love. 

MAX.  Mesmerism  .  .  . 

ANATOL.  Hypnotism. 

MAX.  Yes  .  .  .  I'll  take  cart  no  one  ever  does  It  to 
me. 

ANATOL.  Where's  the  harm?  I  tell  you  to  go  to 
sleep.   You  settle  down  comfortably  ...  off  you  go  .  .  . 

MAX.  Then  you  tell  me  I'm  a  chimney-sweep,  and 
up  the  chimney  I  go  and  get  all  over  soot. 

ANATOL.  But,  you  kuow,  it  has  great  scientific 
possibilities.  We're  hardly  on  the  threshold  of  them 
yet .  .  .  worse  luck. 

MAX.  Why  worse  luck? 

ANATOL.  I  could  make  what  I  liked  of  the  world 
for  that  fellow  an  hour  ago.  Can  I  shift  it  a  jot  from 
what  It  damnably  is  for  myself? 

MAX.  Can't  you? 

ANATOL.  Haven't  I  tried?  I've  stared  and  stared 
at  this  ring  of  mine,  saying  Sleep  .  .  .  and  then  wake 
with  this  little  wretch  that's  driving  you  mad,  gone 
clean  from  your  mind. 

4 


ASK    NO    QUESTIONS 

MAX.   Still  the  same  little  wretch? 

ANATOL,.  Of  course.     I'm  damned  wretched, 

MAX.  And  still  suspecting  her.? 

ANATOL.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  know  perfectly  well 
that  she's  untrue  to  me.  She  puts  her  arms  round 
m}''  neck  and  kisses  me,  and  we're  happy.  But  all 
the  time ...  as  sure  as  she's  standing  there ...  I 
know  that  she's  .  . . 

MAX.  Oh,  nonsense! 

ANATOL.     Is  it! 

MAX.  Then  how  do  you  know.? 

ANATOL.  When  I  feel  a  thing  as  I  feel  this  ...  it 
must  be  true. 

MAX.  That's  unarguable,  anyhow. 

ANATOL.  Besides,  girls  of  this  sort  always  are  un- 
faithful. It  comes  naturally  to  them  .  .  .  it's  a  sort  of 
instinct.  Just  as  I  have  two  or  three  books  that  I 
read  at  a  time,  they  must  keep  two  or  three  men 
hanging  around. 

MAX.  But  doesn't  she  love  you? 

ANATOL.  What  difference  does  that  make? 

MAX.  Who's  the  other  man? 

ANATOL.  How  do  I  kuow  ?  Somc  one  has  seen  her 
in  the  shop.  Some  one  has  made  eyes  at  her  in  the 
train  going  home. 

MAX.  Rubbish! 

ANATOL.  Why?  All  she  wants  is  to  have  a  good 
time  without  thinking  about  it.  I  ask  her  if  she 
loves  me.  She  says  Yes  .  .  .  and  it's  perfectly  true. 
Then  .  .  .  Am  I  the  only  man  she  loves  ?     She  says 

5 


ANATOL 

Yes  again  .  .  .  and  that's  true,  too,  for  the  time  being. 
For  the  time  being  she's  forgotten  the  other  fellow. 
Besides  .  .  .  what  else  can  a  woman  say.''  She  can't 
tell  you.  .  .  .  No,  my  darling,  the  very  moment  your 
back  is  turned  .  .  .  !  Still ...  I  wish  I  knew  for 
certain. 

MAX.  My  dear  Anatol,  if  she  really  loves  you  .  .  . 

ANATOL.  Oh,  innocent !  I  ask  you  what  has  that 
to  do  with  it? 

MAX.  A  great  deal,  I  should  hope. 

ANATOL.  Then  why  am  I  not  true  to  her.''  I  really 
love  her,  don't  I.'' 

MAX.  You're  a  man. 

ANATOL.  Thank  you  ...  it  only  needed  that !  Of 
course  ...  we  are  men  and  women  are  different.  Some ! 
If  their  mammas  lock  them  up  or  if  they're  little 
fishes.  Otherwise,  my  dear  Max,  women  and  men  are 
very  much  alike  .  .  .  especially  women.  And  if  I  swear 
to  one  of  them  that  she's  the  only  woman  I  love,  is 
that  lying  to  her...  just  because  the  night  before 
I've  been  saying  the  same  thing  to  another.'' 

MAX.  Well .  .  .   speak  for  yourself. 

ANATOL.  Cold-blooded,  correct  gentleman !  I'm 
afraid  dear  Hilda's  rather  less  like  you  than  she  is 
like  me.  Perhaps  she  isn't  .  .  .  but  perhaps  she  is. 
I'd  give  a  lot  to  know.  I  might  go  on  my  knees 
and  swear  I'd  forgiven  her  already  .  .  .  but  she'd 
lie  to  me  just  the  same.  Haven't  I  been  begged 
with  tears  a  dozen  times  .  .  .  for  God's  sake  to  tell 
them  if  I'm  true.  They  won't  say  an  angry  word  if 
I'm  not  .  .  .  only  tell  them.     Then  I've  lied  .  .  .  calmly 

6 


ASK    NO    QUESTIONS 

and  cheerfully.  And  quite  right  too.  Why  should 
I  make  poor  women  wretched.''  They've  believed  in 
me  and  been  happy. 

MAX.  Very  well,  then  .  .  . 

ANATOL.  But  I  don't  believe  in  her  and  I'm  not 
happy.  Oh  ...  if  some  one  could  invent  a  way  to 
make  these  dear  damnable  little  creatures  speak  the 
truth ! 

MAX.  What  about  your  hypnotism.'' 

ANATOL.    My  ....'' 

MAX.  Put  her  to  sleep  and  draw  it  like  a  tooth. 

ANATOii.  I  could. 

MAX.  What  an  opportunity. 

ANATOL.    Isn't   it.'' 

MAX.  Does  she  love  you  ...  or  who  else  is  it.'' 
Where's  she  just  been  .  .  .  where's  she  going.''  What's 
his  name  .  .  .  ? 

ANATOL.  Oh,  if  I  knew  that! 

MAX.  But  you've  only  to  ask  her  .  .  . 

ANATOL.  And   she  must  answer. 

MAX.  You  lucky  fellow ! 

ANATOL.  Yes  ...  I  am.  It'll  be  my  own  fault  if 
I  worry  any  more,  won't  it.f^  She's  under  my  thumb 
now,  isn't  she.'' 

MAX.  I  say  .  .  .  I'm  curious  to  know. 

ANATOL.  Why  .  .  .  d'you  think  she's  not  straight.'' 

MAX.  Oh  .  .  .  may  nobody  think  it  but  you  ? 

ANATOL.  No,  nobody  may.  When  you've  just 
found  your  wife  in  another  man's  arms  and  an  old 
friend  meets  you  and  says  Poor  fellow,  I'm  afraid 
Madame  isn't  all  that  she  should  be  .  .  .   d'you  clasp 

7 


ANATOL 

his  hand  gratefully  and  tell  him  he's  quite  right? 
No  .  .  .  you  knock  him  down. 

MAX.  Yes  .  .  .  the  principal  task  of  friendship  is  to 
foster  one's  friend's  illusions. 

ANATOL.  hears  something. 
ANATOL.  Tsch! 
MAX.  What.? 

ANATOL.  How  well  I  kuow  the  sound  of  her! 
MAX.  I  don't .  .  . 

ANATOL.  In    the    hall.      Here    she    is.      Well . . . 
Hilda.? 

He  opens  the  door  to  find  her  coming  in.     A 

personable  young  woman. 
HILDA.  Dearest !    Oh  .  .  .  somebody  with  you. 
ANATOL.  Only  Max. 
HILDA.  How  are  you?    All  in  the  dark! 
ANATOL.  I  like  the  gloaming. 
HILDA.  Romantic  darling. 
ANATOL.  Dearest. 

HILDA.  But  don't  let's  have  any  more  of  it.     You 
don't  mind,  do  you? 

She  turns  up  the  lights  and  then  takes  off  her 
hat  and  things,  and  rnakes  herself  quite  at 
home. 
ANATOL   [under  his  breath^.  Isn't  she  .  .  .?  {praise 
fails  him). 

MAX  [with  a  shade  of  irony^.  She  is ! 
HILDA.  Had  a  nice  long  talk? 
ANATOL.  Half-an-hour. 
HILDA.  What  about? 
ANATOL.  All  sorts  of  things. 
8 


ASK    NO    QUESTIONS 

MAX.  Hypnotism. 

HILDA.  You're  all  going  mad  about  that. 

ANATOL.  Yes  .  .  . 

HILDA.  Anatol,     why     don't    you    hypnotise    me 
some  time.'' 

ANATOL  is  staggered  at  the  sudden  opportunity. 

ANATOL.  D'you  mean  it? 

HILDA.  Rather!    Awfully  jolly  if  you'd  do  it, 
darling. 

ANATOL.  Much  obliged. 

HILDA.  Not  any  strange  person  messing  about  of 
course. 

ANATOL.  Very  well .  .  .  I'll  hypnotise  you. 

HILDA.  When? 

ANATOL.    Now. 

HILDA.  Will  you  ?     Oh,  how  nice !    What  do  I  do  ? 
ANATOL.  Sit  in  that  chair  and  go  to  sleep. 
HILDA.  That  all? 

He  settles  her  on  a  chair,  and,  taking  another, 
settles  himself  opposite,    max  is  discreet  in 
the  background. 
ANATOL.  You  must  look  at  me  .  .  .   straight  at  me. 
And  then  I  stroke  your  forehead  .  .  .  and  then  over 
your  eyes  .  .  .  like  this. 
HILDA.  What  else? 
ANATOL.  Let  yourself  go. 

She  sits  limply  with  her  eyes  shut. 
HILDA.  When  you  stroke  me  like  that ...  it  makes 
me  feel  funny  all  over. 

ANATOL.  Don't    talk ...  go    to    sleep.      You    are 
rather  sleepy. 

9 


ANATOL 

HILDA.  No,  I'm  not. 
ANATOL,.  Just  a  little. 

HILDA   [in  tune  with  /jfm].  Yes  .  .  .  just  a  little. 
ANATOL.  Oh  .  .  .  it's  so  hard  to  keep  awake.    Don't 
try.     Why  .  .  .  you  can't  lift  up  your  hand. 
HILDA  [^tonelessly^^.  No  ...  I  can't. 

ANATOL  makes  wider  passes,  and  his  voice  is  won- 
derfully soothing. 
ANATOL.  You  are  so  sleepy  ...  so  sleepy  ...  so  very 
sleepy.      Well,   then  .  .  .  sleep,   dear   child,   sleep  .  . . 
sleep.     You  can't  open  your  eyes  now. 

It  seems  as  if  she  made  the  most  helpless  effort. 
ANATOL.  You  can't .  .  .  because  you're  asleep.  Keep 
sleeping  .  .  . 

MAX  [really  excited^ .  Is  she  .  .  .  ? 
ANATOL.  S-sh!     [Then  as  hefore.'\      Sleeping... 
sleeping  .  .  .  fast  asleep. 

He  stands  silently  for  a  minute  looking  down  at 
HILDA  as  she  sleeps.    Then  he  turns  to  max 
and  says  in  his  ordinary  tones  . . . 
ANATOL.  All   right  now. 
MAX.  Is  she  really  asleep  .»* 

ANATOL.  Look  at  her.    Let  her  be  for  a  minute. 
For  a  minute  they  both  watch  her.   Then  anatol 
speaks  again. 
ANATOL.  Hilda,  answer  me  when  I  ask  you.  What's 
your  name.'' 

Her  mouth  opens  and  the  word  is  slowly  formed. 
HILDA.  Hilda. 

ANATOL.  Hilda  .  .  .  we're  walking  along  a  road  .  .  . 
out  in  the  country. 

10 


ASK    NO    QUESTIONS 

HILDA.  Yes  .  .  .  isn't  it  pretty  ?  That's  a  tall  tree. 
There's  a  bird  singing  .  .  . 

ANATOL.  Hilda  . . .  you're  going  to  tell  me  the  truth. 
Do  you  understand? 

HILDA  [^slowly  again^.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  the 
truth. 

ANATOL.  Answer  me  all  I  ask  you  quite  truthfully 
.  .  .  but  when  you  wake  up  you  will  have  forgotten. 
Do  you  understand? 

HILDA.  Yes. 

ANATOL.  Then  sleep  .  .  .  soundly. 

Then  he  turns  to  max  and  they  look  at  each  other 
triumphantly,  hut  hesitant. 

ANATOL.  How  shall  we- begin? 

i&AK  [after  a  moment'\.  How  old  is  she? 

ANATOL.  She's  nineteen.  Hilda  .  .  .how  old  are  you? 

HILDA.  Twenty-five. 

MAX.  Oh!  [and  he  dissolves  into  silent  guffaws']. 

ANATOL.  Tsch !  That's  odd.  But  .  . .  [he  brightens] 
but  there  you  are. 

MAX.  She  never  thought  she'd  be  such  a  success. 

ANATOL.  Well .  .  .  one  more  martyr  to  science. 
Let's  try  again.  Hilda,  do  you  love  me?  Hilda 
dear  ...  da  you  love  me? 

HILDA.   Yes. 

ANATOL.  There  .  .  .  that's  the  truth. 

MAX.  And  now  for  the  all-important  question  .  .  . 
is  she  true  to  you? 

ANATOL  strikes  the  correct  attitude  for  this. 

ANATOL.  Yes.  Hilda,  are  you . . .  ?  [but  he 
frowns.]  No  . . .  that  won't  do. 

11 


ANATOL 

MAX.  Why  not? 

ANATOL.  I  can't  put  it  that  way. 

MAX.  It's  a  simple  question. 

ANATOL,.  Not  at  all.  Are  you  true  to  me !  It  may 
mean  anything. 

MAX.  How? 

ANATOL.  She  might  look  back  over  her  whole  life. 
You  don't  suppose  she  never  fell  in  love  till  she  met 
me,  do  you? 

MAX.  Well ...  I  should  like  to  hear  about  it. 

ANATOL.  Would  you,  indeed !  Prying  into  school- 
girl secrets !  How  was  the  poor  child  to  know  that 
one  day  she'd  meet  me? 

MAX.   Of  course  she  didn't. 

ANATOL.  Very  well,  then. 

MAX.  So  why  shouldn't  she  tell  us? 

ANATOL.  I  don't  like  putting  it  that  way,  and  I 
shan't. 

MAX.  What  about .  .  .  Hilda,  since  you've  known 
me  have  you  been  true  to  me? 

ANATOL.  Ah,  that's  different.  [^He  faces  the  sleeper 
again.'l  Hilda...  since  you've  known  me  have 
you  been  .  .  .  [but  again  he  frowns  and  stops^.  And 
it's  rather  worse. 

MAX.  Worse? 

ANATOL.  Think  how  all  love  affairs  begin.  We 
met  quite  casually.  How  could  we  tell  we  should 
one  day  be  all  in  all  to  each  other? 

MAX.  Of  course   you   couldn't. 

ANATOL.  Very  well,  then.  Suppose  when  she  first 
12 


ASK    NO    QUESTIONS 

knew  me  she  had  some  idle  fancy  still  to  shake  free 
of  .  .  .  am  I  to  blame  her  for  that? 

MAX.  You  make  better  excuses  than  ever  she 
could. 

ANATOL.  Is  it  fair  to  take  such  an  advantage  of 
the  girl? 

MAX  [with  a  twisty  smile^.  You're  a  good  fellow, 
Anatol.  Try  this.  Hilda  .  .  .  since  you've  loved  me, 
have  you  been  true  to  me  ? 

ANATOL.  Yes  .  .  .  that's  better. 

MAX.  Right. 

Once  more  anatol,  fixes  his  love  with  a  gesture. 
But  he  suddenly  drops  it. 

anatol.  No,  it  won't  do  .  .  .  it  won't  do. 

max.  Well,  really! 

anatol.  Think  a  minute.  She's  sitting  in  a 
train,  A  man  opposite  .  .  .  good-looking  fellow  .  .  . 
slides  his  foot  against  hers.     She  looks  up. 

max.  Well? 

anatol.  Think  of  the  extraordinary 
subtlety  of  mind  that  has  been  engendered  in  her 
by  this  hypnotic  trance.  In  her  present  un- 
conscious state  the  remembrance  of  looking  up 
not  displeased  might  well  be  recalled  as  an  act  of 
infidelity. 

MAX.  Oh,  come! 

anatol.  That's  perfectly  sound.  And  the  more  so 
because  she  already  knows  my  views  on  such  a  point 
.  .  .  which  are  a  little  exaggerated.  I've  often  warned 
her  not  to  go  looking  at  men. 

MAX.  What  has  she  said  to  that? 
13 


ANATOL 

ANATOL.  Oh  .  .  .  asked  me  to  imagine  her  doing 
such  a  tiling ! 

MAX.  Which  you  were  imagining  quite  well  ten 
minutes  ago. 

ANATOL..  Suppose  she  was  kissed  under  the  mistle- 
toe last  Christmas  .  .  . 

MAX.  No  .  .  .  really ! 

ANATOL.  She  may  have  been. 

MAX.  All  this  means  is,  that  you  won't  ask  her  the 
question. 

ANATOL.  Not  at  all.  I  will  ask  her  the  question. 
But .  .  . 

MAX.  Anatol,  it  won't  do.  Ask  a  woman  if  she's 
true  to  3'OU  and  she  doesn't  think  of  men  tread- 
ing on  her  foot  or  kissing  her  under  the  mistletoe. 
Besides,  if  the  answer's  not  clear,  we  can  make  her 
go  into  details. 

ANATOL.  I  see.  You've  made  up  your  mind  I  shall 
ask  her,  have  you.^" 

MAX.  Dash  it,  no !  It's  you  want  to  find  things 
out .  .  .  not  I. 

ANATOL.  Yes.     There's  another  thing  to  think  of. 

MAX.  What  now? 

ANATOL.  What  about  her  sub-responsible  self.'' 

MAX.  What  the  devil's  that? 

ANATOL.  Under  the  stimulus  of  certain  extraor- 
dinary circumstances,  I  quite  believe  that  one  is 
not  a  fully  independent  agent. 

MAX.  Would  you  put  that  into  English? 

ANATOL.  Well .  .  .  imagine  some  room  .  ,  .  softly 
14 


ASK    NO    QUESTIONS 

curtained  .  .  .  dimly  lit .  .  .  glowing  with  warmth  and 
colour. 

MAX.  Right  .  .  .   I've   imagined   it. 

ANATOL.  There  she  sits .  .  .  she  and  some  other 
man. 

MAX.  But  what's  she  doing  there  at  all? 

ANATOL.  That's  not  the  point  for  the  moment. 
She  i  s  there,  we'll  suppose.  Supper ...  a  glass  of 
wine  .  .  .  cigarettes  . .  .  silence.  And  then  a  whis- 
pered word  or  two  .  .  .  !  Oh,  my  dear  Max,  colder 
women  than  she  haven't  stood  prim  against  such 
temptation. 

MAX.  I  should  say  that  if  you're  in  love  with 
some  one,  you've  no  business  to  find  yourself  in  a 
room  like  that  with  somebody  else. 

ANATOL.  But  I  know  how  things  will  happen. 

MAX.  Anatol,  it  won't  do.  Here's  your  riddle 
with  its  answer  ready.  It's  to  be  solved  with  a  word. 
One  question  to  find  out  if  she's  yours  alone.  One 
more  to  find  out  who  shares  her  with  you  .  .  .  and 
how  big  is  the  share.  You  won't  ask  them.  You 
suffer  agonies.  What  wouldn't  you  give  to  know 
.  .  .  just  to  be  sure.  Well,  here's  the  book  open  .  .  . 
and  you  won't  even  turn  the  page.  Why.?  Because 
you  might  find  written  there  that  a  woman  you're  in 
love  with  is  no  better  than  you  swear  all  women  are. 
You  don't  want  the  truth  .  .  .  you  want  to  keep  your 
illusions.  Wake  her  up  .  .  .  and  to-morrow  be  content 
with  the  glorious  thought  that  you  could  have  found 
out .  .  .  only  you  wouldn't. 

ANATOL.    I  .  .  .    I  .  .  . 

15 


ANATOL 

MAX.  You've    been    talking   nonsense.      It    hasn't 
taken  me  in  if  it  has  you. 
ANATOL.   I  w  i  1 1  ask  her. 
MAX.  Will  you? 

ANATOL.  Yes  .  .  .  but  not  in  front  of  you. 
MAX.  Wh}^  not.? 

ANATOL.  If  I'm  to  know  the  worst,  I'll  hear  it 
privately.  Being  hurt  is  only  half  as  bad  as  being 
pitied  for  it.  I  don't  want  your  kind  face  to  be 
telling  me  just  how  hard  the  knock  is.  You'll  know 
just  the  same,  because  if  she's  ...  if  she  has  been  .  .  . 
then  we've  seen  the  last  of  her.  But  you  won't  be 
there  at  the  awful  moment.  D'you  mind? 
MAX.  Shall  I  wait  in  your  bedroom? 
ANATOL.  Yes.     It  won't  take  a  moment. 

So  MAX  retires,  and  anatol  faces  the  sleeping 
girl,  who  is  half  smiling  in  her  sleep.     He 
braces  himself  for  the  effort,  then  speaks 
sternly,  judicially. 
ANATOL.  Hilda  ...  do  you  .  .  .  ? 

He  fails,  then  makes  a  further  effort. 
ANATOL.  Hilda  .  .  .   are  you  .  .  .  ? 

He   fails   again   and   turns   distractedly   away. 
Then  for  the  third  time  .  .  . 
ANATOL.  Hilda  ,  .  .  have  you  .  .  .  ? 

He  begins  to  sweat  with  the  emotion  of  it. 
ANATOL.  Oh,    Lord !      Hilda  .  .  .  Hilda  .  .  . 

And  then,  with  one  qualm  as  to  whether  max  can 
overhear,  he  throws  conscience  to  the  winds, 
and  himself  on  his  knees  beside  the  pretty 
girl. 

16 


ASK    NO    QUESTIONS 

ANATOL.  Oh  .  .  .  wake  up,  my  darling,  and  give  me 
a  kiss. 

With  a  couple  of  waves  he  can  release  her,  and 
up  she  sits  quite  brightly. 
HILDA.  Have    I    been    like    that    long?      Where's 
Max.? 

ANATOL.  Max! 

Out  of  the  bedroom  comes  max,  mischievously 
watchful. 
MAX.  Here. 

anatol.  Yes ...  a  sound  sleep.  You've  been 
saying  things. 

HILDA.  Anything  I  shouldn't? 

»LAX.  He's  been  asking  you  questions. 

HILDA.  What  sort? 

ANATOL.    All  sorts. 

HILDA.  And  I  answered  them? 

ANATOL  \_with  a  look  at  max].  Every  one. 

HILDA.  Oh,  tell  me  .  .  .  ! 

ANATOL.  Aha ! .  .  .  we'll  try  again  to-morrow. 

HILDA.  No,  we  won't.  You  asking  me  what  you 
like  ,  .  .  and  now  I  can't  remember  any  of  it.  I  may 
have  said  the  most  awful  things. 

ANATOL.  You  said  you  loved  me. 

HILDA.   Did  I? 

MAX.  Who'd  have  thought  it ! 

HILDA.  I  can  say  that  better  when  I'm  awake. 

ANATOL.  Sweetheart ! 

MAX.  Good  afternoon! 

ANATOL.  Going? 

17 


ANATOL 

MAX.  I  must. 

ANATOL.  You  can  find  your  way  out? 

HILDA.  Ta-ta. 

MAX  beckons  to  anatol,  who  follows  him  to  the 

door. 

max.  Perhaps   you've   made  a   scientific   discovery 

besides.      That  women   tell   lies   just   as   well   when 

they're   asleep.      But   so   long   as   you're   happy  .  .  . 

what's  the  odds.'' 

He  departs,  leaving  the  couple  locked  in  a  fond 
embrace. 


18 


II 

A    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 


A   CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 


It  is  Christmas  Eve,  about  "five  o'clock.  In  a  bye- 
street,  that  links  up  two  others  busy  with  shops,  a 
builder's  scaffold  has  formed  a  little  arcade.  Be- 
neath this,  and  just  beside  a  big  arc  lamp  that 
sheds  its  whiteness  down,  anatol,  hurrying  along 
with  umbrella  up,  meets  gabrielle. 

ANATOX,   [stopping'].  Oh!     How  do  you  do? 

gabrielle.  Why,  it's  you! 

ANATOL.  What  are  you  doing?  All  those  parcels 
.  .  .  and  no  umbrella ! 

GABRIELLE.  I'm  trying  to  find  a  cab. 

ANATOL.  But  it's  raining. 

GABRIELLE.  That's  the  reason.  I've  been  buying 
presents. 

ANATOL.  Let  me  carry  some  of  them  .  .  .  please. 

GABRIELLE.  It  doesn't  matter. 

ANATOL.  I  insist.  [He  captures  one.]  But  hadn't 
you  better  wait  here  in  shelter?  We  shall  find  a 
cab  just  as  quickly. 

GABRIELLE.  You  really  mustn't  trouble. 

ANATOL.  Let  me  be  a  little  attentive  for  once  in  a 
way. 

GABRIELLE.  I'll  Wait  here  a  minute  to  see  if  one 
21 


ANATOL 

'I 
passes.     Or  I'll  be  grateful  for  the  umbrella.      [He 
tries  for  another  parcel.^     No,  I  can  manage  that, 
thanks.     It's  not  at  all  heavy*     \^But  she  surrenders 
it.l     Oh,  very  well  then! 

ANATOL.  Won't  you  believe  that  I  like  being 
polite .''  -s^ 

GABRiELLE.  As  onc  Only  notices  it  when  it's  rain- 
ing, and  I  haven't  an  umbrella  .  .  . 

ANATOL.  And  it's  Christmas  Eve,  and  dark  too  .  .  . ! 
Warm  weather  for  Christmas,  isn't  it? 

GABRiELLE.  Very.  [They  take  their  stand  looking 
out  for  a  cab  to  pass.^     Marvellous  to  see  you  at  all. 

ANATOL.  I've  not  been  to  call  once  this  year  .  .  . 
is  that  what  you  mean  ? 

GABRiEi^iiE  [with  much  indifference^.  Oh,  haven't 
you.? 

ANATOL.  The  fact  is  I've  not  been  anywhere 
much.  How  is  your  husband  .  .  .  and  how  are  the 
dear  children? 

GABRIELLE.  Why  ask  that?  You  don't  in  the 
least  want  to  know. 

ANATOL.  You  read  me  like  a  book. 

GABRIELLE.  It's  such  Very  large  print. 

ANATOL.  I  wish  you  knew  more  of  it  .  .  .  by  heart. 

GABRIELLE  [with  tt  toss  of  her  head}.  Don't  say 
things  like  that. 

ANATOL.  They  just  spring  from  me. 

GABRIELLE.  Give  me  my  parcels.     I'll  walk  on. 

ANATOL.  Oh,  don't  be  angry  .  .  .  I'll  be  as  prim  and 
proper  as  you  please. 

GABRIELLE.  There's  a  cab.   No,  it's  full.   Oh,  dear, 


A    CHRISTMAS    FRESENT 

shall  I  have  to  wait  long?  \^He  is  standing  mum.^ 
Do  say  something. 

ANATOL.  I'm  longing  to  .  .  .  but  the  censorship  is 
so  strict. 

GABRiELLE.  You  Can  tell  me  your  news,  can't  you.f* 
It's  ages  since  we  met.     What  are  you  doing  now? 

ANATOL.  As  usual .  .  .   nothing. 

GABRIELLE.  Nothing? 

ANATOL.  Rather  less  than^  nothing. 

GABRIELLE.   Isn't  that  a  pity? 

ANATOL.  Why  say  that .  .  .  when  you  don't  in  the 
least  care?  v, 

GABRIELLE.  You  shouldu't  take  that  for  granted. 

ANATOL.  If  I'm  wasting  my  life,  whose  fault  is  it? 
Whose,  would  you  mind  telling  me  ? 

GABRIELLE.  I'd  better  go  on.  Give  me  my 
parcels. 

ANATOL  [^mischievously^.  I  didn't  imply  it  was  any 
one's  fault  in  particular.  I  just  wanted  your  valua- 
ble opinion. 

GABRIELLE   [^with  a  touch  of  feeling^.    You  idler! 

ANATOL.  Don't  despise  idlers.  They're  the  last 
word  in  civilisation.  But  I'm  not  idling  to-night. 
I'm  as  busy  as  you  are. 

GABRIELLE.  What  with? 

ANATOL.  I'm  out  to  buy  Christmas  presents,  too. 

GABRIELLE.  Areyou? 

ANATOL.  If  I  could  find  anything  worth  buying. 
I've  been  looking  at  the  shops  for  weeks.  They 
haven't  a  notion  amongst  'em. 

GABRIELLE.  That's  what  the  good  customer  has  to 
23 


ANATOL 

supply.  But,  bless  me !  an  idle  person  like  you 
ought  to  be  thinking  out  his  presents  all  the 
summer. 

ANATOL.  How  could  I.''  How  Can  I  tell  in  the 
summer  whom  I  may  be  making  up  to  at  Christmas? 
And  the  shops  will  be  shut  in  an  hour  or  two,  and 
I'm  still  empty-handed ! 

GABRIELLE.    Could   I  help? 

ANATOL.  Oh,  you  arc  a  darling!  What's  my  best 
shop  ? 

GABRIELLE.  Well,  you  must  know  that.  We'll  take 
the  cab  there  when  we  find  it. 

ANATOL.  Thank  you  for  passing  the  Darling .  . . 
it's  my  favourite  word. 

GABRIELLE.  I  ignored  it. 

ANATOL.  Very  well .  .  .  I'm  prim  and  proper  again. 

GABRIELLE.  Where  shall  we  go  when  the  cab  comes? 
What  sort  of  a  present?     Who's  it  for? 

ANATOL.  Now  .  .  .  how  shall  I  tell  you? 

GABRIELLE.  It's  for  a  woman,  of  course. 

ANATOL.  Didn't  I  say  you  could  read  me  like  a 
book  ? 

GABRIELLE.  What  sort  of  a  woman? 

ANATOL.  There,  again !  How  do  you  women  sort 
yourselves  out? 

GABRIELLE.  Is  it  a  womau  I  know? 

ANATOL.   Not  at  all. 

GABRIELLE.  Not ...  a  womau  I  should  call  on  ? 

ANATOL.  Never. 

GABRIELLE.  No  ...  I  thought  as  much. 

ANATOL.  Don't  sneer. 

24) 


A    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

GABRiELLE.  You  have  extraordinary  tastes. 
What's  she  like.  .  .  pretty-pretty? 

ANATOL,.  Pretty. 

GABRiELLE.  A  man  is  a  marvellous  creature.  Good 
breeding,  good  manners,  are  nothing  to  you ! 

ANATOL.  Oh,  a  great  deal .  .  .  when  they'll  conde- 
scend to  us.     But  if  they  won't .  .  . 

GABRiELLE.  Don't  be  silly  again.  No,  you  prefer 
a  cheap  and  easy  conquest ! 

ANATOL.  I  go  where  I'm  appreciated. 

GABRIELLE.  Can  she  read  you  like  a  book? 

ANATOL.  God  forbid.  But  she  admires  the 
binding,  and  takes  the  rest  on  trust.  While 
you  despise  the  contents  ...  as  if  you  really  knew 
them! 

GABRIELLE.  I  really  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I 
can  tell  you  of  an  excellent  shop;  I  passed  it  just 
now.  Cases  of  scent  in  the  window.  One  with  three 
sorts  ,  .  .  Patchouli,  Jockey  Club,  Cherry  Blossom. 
I'm  sure  that's  the  very  thing. 

ANATOL.  You're  unkind. 

GABRIELLE.  Well,  there  was  another  shop  next  door 
.  .  .  with  brooches  and  suchlike.  One  with  ^ix  Parisian 
diamonds  in  it  .  .  ,  s  i  x.  Oh,  so  sparkling !  Or  a 
bracelet  with  charms  hung  round ;  or  a  long  bead 
necklace  .  .  .  quite  savage !  That's  the  sort  of  thing 
these  ladies  like,  isn't  it? 

ANATOL.  I'm  afraid  you  know  nothing  about 
them. 

GABRIELLE.  Or  I  Can  tell  you  of  a  hat  shop  with  a 
style  of  its  own.     Their  bows  are  too  large,  and  they 

25 


ANATOL 

put  in  a  feather  too  many.  These  persons  like  to  be 
conspicuous,  don't  they  ? 

ANATOL.   Not  at  all. 

GABRiELLE.  It's  hard  to  be  helpful.  Make  a  sug- 
gestion yourself. 

ANATOL.  You're  waiting  to  laugh  at  it. 

GABRiELLE.  I  promise  I  won't.  Let  me  know  what 
she  likes.     Is  she  demure  in  sealskins  ? 

ANATOL.  I  said  you'd  laugh. 

GABRIELLE.  I'm  not  laughiug.     Tell  me  about  her. 

ANATOL.  I  don't  think  I  can. 

GABRIELLE.  Of  couTse  you  Can.  How  long  have 
you  known  her.? 

ANATOL.    Oh  .  .  . 

GABRIELLE.    Well.'' 

ANATOL.  Ever  so  long. 

GABRIELLE.  Don't  be  so  difficult.  Tell  me  all 
about  it. 

ANATOL.  There's  nothing  to  tell. 

GABRIELLE.  What  nousense !  Where  did  you  meet 
her  and  what's  she  like?  What's  her  name  and  her 
age.^*     Is  she  tall  or  short  and  dark  or  fair.'' 

ANATOL.  It'll  only  bore  you. 

GABRIELLE.  No  it  wou't.  I've  always  wanted  to 
know  about  that  sort  of  person  .  .  .  what  they're 
really  like. 

ANATOL.  You'll  never  know. 

GABRIELLE.   Why  not.'' 

ANATOL.  As  long  as  you  fully  believe  that  women 
you  can't  call  on  don't  really  exist  at  all. 

26 


A    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

GABRiELLE.  But  I  Want  to  learn  better.  And  if 
no  one  dares  tell  me  the  truth  .  .  . 

ANATOL  [with  a  sudden  break  of  tone'\.  Haven't 
you  very  virtuous  ladies  a  feeling  that  this  other 
sort  of  woman  .  .  .  somehow  gets  the  better  of  you 
after  all? 

GABRIELLE.  That's  a  delicate  insult. 

ANATOL.  You  wouldn't  change  places,  of  course, 
but .  .  .  how  dare  she  be  so  improperly  happy.'' 

GABRIELLE.  Is  it  the  oiily  way  then? 

ANATOL.  That's  feminine  fellow-feeling,  I'm  told 
.  .  .  and  therefore  all  that's  charming  and  charitable. 

GABRIELLE.  You'vc  Icamt  to  be  very  sarcastic  since 
we  last  met. 

ANATOL  [seriously,  almost  passionatelyl.  Shall  I 
tell  you  how?  Once  I  used  to  believe  that  a  good 
woman  so-called  was  an  honest  woman.  I've  taken  a 
few  knock-down  blows  with  my  teeth  shut .  .  . 

GABRIELLE.  Plcasc  don't  be  heroic...  that's 
far  worse ! 

ANATOL.  Straight  blows.  I  can  take  a  No  when 
it's  honestly  meant  and  said  without  flinching.  But 
when  the  eyes  say  Perhaps  and  the  smile  says  Wait 
a  little,  and  what  the  No  means  is  Yes  Yes  Yes  .  .  . 
if  only  I  dared !     Then  ...  , 

GABRIELLE  \_biting  her  lips^.  I  think  I  ^9ri^t_wait 
for  this  cab  to  come  by  .  .  . 

ANATOL.  Then  you've  your  choice  between  feeling 
a  fool  and  becoming  a  cynic. 

GABRIELLE.  .  .  .  Unlcss  you  mean  to  go  on  telling 
me  about . . .  about  your  new  friend. 

27 


ANATOL 

ANATOi.  [back  to  his  bantering  humour^.  You 
simply  must  know,  mi^^t  you? 

GABRiELLE.  Certainly  I  must.  How  did  you  first 
meet? 

ANATOL.  How  does  one  meet  people  ?  In  the 
streets,  at  the  seaside,  in  an  omnibus,  sharing  an 
umbrella ! 

GABRiELLE.  Never  mind  how  one  meets  people. 
How  did  you  meet  her  .  .  .  the  Her  we're  finding  a 
Christmas  present  for?  I'm  sure  she's  like  nobody  else. 

ANATOL.  She's  just  as  like  every  other  girl  of  her 
sort  as  you  are  like  every  other  woman  of  yours. 

GABRIELLE  [for  the  first  time  really  annoyed^. 
Am  I  indeed ! 

ANATOL.  Oh,  don't  be  offended.  Or  as  I'm  like 
every  other  man  of  mine.  Are  there  a  dozen  different 
patterns  of  any  of  us  altogether? 

GABRIELLE.  What's  yours? 

ANATOL.  I,  madam,  am  a  Toy  Philosopher. 

GABRIELLE.  And  mine? 

ANATOL.  You  are  a  Married  Lady. 

GABRIELLE.  And  what's  she? 

ANATOL.   She?     She  is  just  a  Dear  Little  Girl. 

GABRIELLE.  Then  let's  hear  al]  about  your  Dear 
Little  Girl. 

ANATOL.  It's  not  that  she's  so  pretty,  or  so  smart 
. .  .   and  certainly  not  that  she's  so  clever. 

GABRIELLE.  Nevcr  mind  what  she's  not. 

ANATOL.  She's  as  sweet  as  a  wild  flower,  and  as 
elusive  as  a  fairy  tale .  .  .  and  she  knows  what  love 
means. 

28 


A    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

GABRiELLE.  No  doubt.  ThcsG  Dear  Little  Girls 
have  every  chance  to  learn. 

ANATOL.  Quite  so,  but  you'll  never  learn  what  she's 
really  like.  For  when  you  were  a  dear  little  girl .  .  . 
of  another  sort .  .  .  you  knew  nothing  at  all.  And 
now  you're  a  married  lady  you  think  you're  so 
worldly  wise. 

GABRIELLE.  Not  at  all.  I'm  quite  open-mouthed 
for  your  fairy  tale.  What  sort  of  a  ^castle  does  the 
princess  live  in.^* 

ANATOL.  Can  you  imagine  a  fairy  princess  in  any- 
thing but  the  smartest  of  drawing-rooms.? 

GABRIELLE  [«  little  ^arfZT/].  Thank  you,  I  can. 

ANATOL.  Because  this  one  lives  in  a  little  room  .  .  . 
with  a  cheap  and  nasty  wall-paper.  With  a  few 
Christmas  numbers  hanging  about  and  a  white 
shaded  lamp  on  her  table.  You  can  see  the  sun  set 
from  the  window  over  the  roofs  and  through  the 
chimneys.  And  in  the  spring  you  can  almost  smell 
the  flowers  in  a  garden  across  the  way. 

GABRIELLE.  It  must  be  a  sign  of  great  happiness 
•  .  .  looking  forward  to  the  spring. 

ANATOL.  Yes,  even  I  feel  happy  now  and  then . .  . 
sitting  with  her  at  that  window. 

GABRIELLE  givcs  a  little  shiver;  it's  the  cold, 
no  doubt.     Then  .  .  . 
GABRIELLE.  It  is  getting  late.      Shall  we  walk  on.? 
You  must  buy  her  something.      Something  to  hang 
on  the  nasty  wall-paper  and  hide  it  a  little. 
ANATOL.  She  thinks  it  so  pretty. 
29 


ANATOL 

GABRiELLE.  Why  don't  you  refurnish  the  room  to 
your  taste? 

ANATOL.  Why  should  I? 

GABRIELLE.  With  a  Persian  carpet,  and  .'.  . 

ANATOL.  No,    no,    no  .  .  .     She    knows    what    she 
likes. 

There  falls  a  little  silence.     But  no  cab  passes. 

GABRIELLE.  Is  sh^jvaiting  for  you  now.'* 

ANATOL.  Sure  to  be. 

GABRIELLE.  What  will  she  say  when  you  come.'' 

ANATOL.  Oh .  .  .  the  right  thing. 

GABRIELLE.  She  knows   your  step   on   the   stairs, 
doesn't  she? 

ANATOL.  I  expect  so. 

GABRIELLE.  And  goes  to  the  door  ? 

ANATOL.    Yes. 

GABRIELLE.  And  puts  hcr  arms  round  your  neck, 
and  says  .  .  .  What  does  she  say? 

ANATOL.  The  right  thing. 

GABRIELLE.  What's  that? 

ANATOL.  It's  just .  .  .  the  right  thing  to  say. 

GABRIELLE.  What  was  it  yesterday? 

ANATOL.  It  sounds  nothing  repeated.     I  suppose 
it's  the  way  that  she  says  it. 

GABRIELLE.  I'll  imagine  that.     Tell  me  the  words. 

ANATOL.  It  is  good  to  have  you  back  again. 

GABRIELLE.  It  is  good  .  .  .  what  ? 

ANATOL.  To  have  you  back  again. 

GABRIELLE.  That's  very  beautiful. 

ANATOL.  You  see  .  .  .  she  means  it. 
30 


A    CHRISTMAS    PRESENT 

GABRiELLE.  And  she  lives  there  alone?  You  can 
always  be  with  her? 

ANATOL.  She's  quite  alone.  She  has  no  father  or 
mother. 

GABRIELLE.  And  jou .  .  .  are  all  the  world  to 
her? 

ANATOL  \^the  cynic  in  him  shrugs  his  shoulders^. 
I  hope  so.     For  the  moment. 

There  is  another  silence. 

GABRIELLE.  I'm  afraid  I'm  getting  cold  standing 
still .  .  .  and  all  the  cabs  seem  to  be  full. 

ANATOL.  I'm  so  sorry.  I  shouldn't  have  kept  you. 
Let  me  see  you  home. 

GABRIELLE.  Yes  .  .  .  they'll  all  be  fidgeting.  But 
what  about  your  present? 

ANATOL.  Never  mind,  I  shall  find  something. 

GABRIELLE.  Will  you  ?  But  I  Wanted  to  help  you 
buy  it. 

ANATOL.  No,  no,  you  mustn't  trouble. 

GABRIELLE.  I  wish  I  could  be  there  when  you  give 
it  her.  I  wish  I  could  see  that  little  room  and  that 
.  .  .  lucky  little  girl.  There's  a  cab  empty.  Call  it, 
please. 

ANATOL  waves  to  the  cab. 

ANATOL.  Taxi ! 

GABRIELLE.  Thank  you.  \^As  the  cab  turns  and  she 
moves  towards  it  .  .  .   ]  May  I  send  her  something? 

ANATOL.    You? 

GABRIELLE.  Take  her  these  flowers.  Will  you  give 
her  a  message  as  well? 

""  ANATOL.  It's  really  most  awfully  good  of  you. 

31 


ANATOL 

GABRiELLE.  But  you  w  i  1 1  take  them  to  her,  and 
promise  to  give  her  the  message? 

ANATOL.  Certainly. 

GABRiELLE.  Promise. 

ANATOL  [by  this  he  has  opened  the  cab  doorl.  I 
promise.     Why  shouldn't  I? 

GABRIELLE.    This   is   it  .  .  . 
ANATOL.    Yes? 

GABRIELLE.  Thesc  flowers,  dear  little  girl,  are 
from  .  .  .  some  one  who  might  have  been  as  happy 
as  you  ...  if  she  hadn't  been  quite  such  a  coward ! 
[^She  gets  in  without  his  help.^  Tell  him  where  to 
drive. 

He  does  so,  and  then  goes  his  way  too. 


32 


Ill 

AN    EPISODE 


AN   EPISODE 

MAx's  rooms  are  comfortable,  if  commonplace.  The 
wiiting  table  he  is  sitting  at  is  clumsy,  but  ifs 
within  reach  of  a  cheerful  fire.  By  the  lamp  on 
it  he  is  reading  a  letter. 

MAX.  We're    back    again    for    three    months .  .  . 
you'll  have  seen  it  in  the  papers.    Old  friends  first .  .  . 
I'm  coming  along  .  .  .  Your  affectionate  Bibi.     Nice 
little  Bianca !    I  shall  certainly  stay  in. 
There's  a  knock  at  the  door. 
MAX.  Already !     No,  this  can't  be  .  .  .  Come  in. 
In  walks  anatol,  carrying  an  enormous  parcel. 
He  looks  most  gloomy. 
anatol.  How  are  you.'' 
MAX.  What  on  earth  have  you  got  there? 
anatoi..  This  is  my  past. 
MAX.  Your  what  ? 

ANATOL  deposits  the  parcel  on  the  table. 
ANATOL.  I  have  brought  you  my  dead  and  buried 
past.    I  want  you  to  take  care  of  it  for  me. 
MAX.  Why? 

ANATOL  [^with  great  solemnity^.  May  I  sit  down? 
MAX   [as  solemn  as  he'\.  You  may. 

ANATOL  takes  off  his  hat  and  coat  and  settles 
himself  i/n  the  most  comfortable  chair. 


ANATOL 

ANATOL.  May  I  smoke? 

MAX.  Try  one  of  these. 

ANATOL  lights  a  cigar  and  unbends  a  trifle. 

ANATOL.   I  rather  like  these. 

MAX   [^pointing  to  the  parcel^.  Well.'' 

ANATOL.  I  really  cannot  live  with  my  past  any 
longer.     I'm  going  for  a  holiday. 

MAX.  Ah! 

ANATOL.  I  wish  to  begin  a  new  life  .  .  .  even  if  I 
don't  go  on  with  it.  And  this  is  naturally  very 
much  in  the  way. 

MAX.  In  love  again? 

ANATOL.  Out  of  love  this  time.  So  you  might 
look  after  this  rubbish  for  me. 

MAX.  Better  bum  it  if  it's  rubbish. 

ANATOL.  I  can't  do  that. 

MAX.  Why  not? 

ANATOL.  This  is  how  I'm  true  to  them  ...  to  all  the 
women  I've  ever  loved  ...  I  never  forget  a  single  one. 
I  have  only  to  turn  over  these  letters,  and  dead  flowers, 
and  locks  of  hair .  .  .  You'll  have  to  let  me  come 
here  and  turn  them  over  occasionally  .  .  .  and  back 
they  come  to  me .  .  .  I'm  in  love  with  them  all 
again. 

MAX.  This  is  to  be  a  sort  of  Usual  place  at 
half-past  three  and  don't  be  late  ...  is  it? 

ANATOL.  I've  often  wished  there  really  were  some 
Abracadabra  which  would  call  them  back  out  of  the 
utter  nothingness. 

MAX.   But  a  variegated  sort  of  nothingness. 

ANATOL.  If  I  knew  of  a  word  .  .  . 
36 


AN    EPISODE 

MAX.  Let's  think  of  one.  What  about  —  My 
Only  Love. 

ANATOL.  Yes  .  .  .  My  Only  Love !  And  then 
they'd  all  come.  One  from  a  little  suburban  villa 
.  .  .  one  from  her  crowded  drawing-room  .  .  .  one 
from  her  dressing-room  at  the  theatre  .  .  . 

MAX.  Several  from  their  dressing-rooms  at  the 
theatre. 

ANATOL.   Several.     One  from  a  shop  .  .  . 

MAX.  One  from  the  arms  of  your  successor! 

ANATOL.  One  from  the  grave.  One  from  here  . .  . 
one  from  there.     Here  they  all  are! 

MAX.  Would  you  mind  not  speaking  the  word.'' 
I  somehow  don't  think  they'd  be  pleasant  company. 
I  dare  say  they're  not  in  love  with  you  still .  .  . 
but  I'm  pretty  sure  they're  still  jealous  of  each 
other. 

ANATOL.  Wise  man!     Let  the  phantoms  rest. 

MAX.  And  where  am  I  to  put  this  mausoleum  ? 

ANATOL.  I'd  better  undo  it. 

He  tundoes  it.  The  parcel  is  made  up  of  a  dozen 
or  so  other  little  parcels,  neatly  tied  up  and 
ticketed,     max  gazes  with  delight. 

MAX.  Hullo! 

ANATOL.  Yes  . . .  I'm  a  methodical  man. 

MAX.  Is  it  done  alphabetically.'' 

ANATOL.  No,  there's  a  label  for  each  . .  .  like  the 
motto  in  a  cracker.  A  verse  or  a  phrase  will  recall 
the  whole  affair  to  me.  No  names !  Susan  and  Jane 
suggest  nothing. 

MAX.  May  I  look? 

37 


ANATOL 

ANATOL.  I  wonder  if  I  can  still  fix  them  all.     I 
can't  have  looked  at  some  of  them  for  years. 

ANATOL  leans  back  in  his  chair,  smoking,     max 
settles  himself  enjoyahly  to  the  Past.     He 
takes  up  the  first  packet  and  reads  the  motto. 
MAX.  '  I  loved  her.     When  she  left  me  I  thought 
I  should  have  killed  her; 
My  kisses  on  your  neck  remain,  and  nothing 
else,  Matilda.' 
But  that's  a  name  .  .  .  what  a  name !    Matilda ! 

ANATOL,  It  wasn't  her  real  name,  but  I'd  written 
'  killed  her,'  and  there  aren't  many  rhymes  to  that. 
I  always  did  kiss  her  on  the  neck,  though. 
MAX.  Who  was  she? 

ANATOL.  It  doesn't  matter.    I  held  her  in  my  arms 
once.     That's  all  there  is  to  her. 

MAX   [fl5  he  puts  the  packet  aside^.  Stand  down, 
Matilda.     She  does  up  small,  anyhow. 
ANATOL.  One  lock  of  hair. 
MAX.  No  letters? 

ANATOL.  Letters     from     Matilda !       That     would 
have  inked  her  fingers.     Don't  you  sometimes  wish 
women  weren't  taught  to  write?    Exit  Matilda. 
MAX  reads  another  label. 
MAX.  '  Women  are  alike  in  one  thing  .  .  .  they  turn 
impudent  if  j^ou  catch  them  out  in  a  lie.' 
ANATOL.  They  do. 

MAX.  Who  was  it?    She's  very  heavy. 
ANATOL.  Lies   eight   pages   long.      Oh .  .  .  put   it 
away. 

MAX.  Was  she  so  very  impudent? 
38 


AN    EPISODE 

ANATOL.  When  I  found  her  out.  Throw  her 
away. 

MAX.  Impudent  little  liar! 

ANATOL.  No  .  .  .  you  mustn't  insult  her.  I  have 
held  her  in  my  arms.     She  is  sacred. 

MAX.  How  stupid  of  me!  Who's  next?  [A  third 
packet.'] 

*  When  sad,  my  child,  and  sick  of  earth, 

My  thoughts  to  your  Young  Man  fly  far, 
And  then  I  laugh  for  all  I'm  worth ; 

Oh,  dear,  how  funny  some  things  are ! ' 

ANATOL.  So  they  were! 

MAX.  What's  inside.? 

ANATOL.  A  photograph.  She  and  the  Young 
Man. 

MAX.  Did  you  know  him,  too? 

ANATOL.  That's  what  was  so  funny.  He  really 
was  quite  an  exceptional  fool. 

MAX.  Hush !  She  has  held  him  in  her  arms  ...  he 
is  sacred. 

ANATOL.    You  shut  Up. 

MAX.  Stand  down,  my  child,  with  your  exception- 
ally foolish  and  mirth-provoking  young  man.  \_With 
a  fourth  package.]     What's  this? 

ANATOL.   What? 

MAX.  *  A  box  on  the  ears.' 

ANATOL.  Oh  .  .  .  !  Oh,  yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  yes ! 

MAX.  Was  that  how  it  ended? 

ANATOL.  No,  how  it  began. 

MAX.  Ah!  [A  fifth  lobel.]  *  How  hard  it  is  to 
39 


ANATOL 

grow  a  flower,  but  it's  so  easy  to  pick  it.'  What 
docs  that  mean? 

ANATOL.  Some  other  fellow  grew  the  flower  ...  I 
came  along  and  picked  it. 

MAX.  Oh !  \_A  sixth  label.^  '  She  always  carried 
her  curling  tongs.'* 

ANATOL.  Do  you  know  she  always  did.  Then 
it  didn't  matter  what  happened.  I  tell  you  .  .  .  she 
was  damn  pretty.  There's  a  bit  of  her  veil  left,  isn't 
there  ? 

MAX.  It  feels  like  that.  [A  seventh  Jahel.^  '  How 
did  I  lose  you?  '     How  did  you  lose  her? 

ANATOL.  That's  the  point ...  I  never  knew.  One 
fine  day  she  just  wasn't.  Don't  you  know  how  you 
leave  your  umbrella  somewhere  .  .  .  don't  think  of  it 
till  days  later  ...  no  idea  where  you  put  it  down. 

MAX.  Fare  thee  well,  my  lost  umbrella!  \^An 
eighth  label.^  What's  this  one?  '  Sweet  and  dear 
you  were  to  me  .  .  .' 

ANATOL  [catching  him  up^.  'Girl  with  roughened 
finger  tips.     Past  all .  .  .' 

MAX.  Oh  .  .  .   that  was  Hilda. 

ANATOL.  You  remember  Hilda. 

MAX.  What  became  of  her? 

ANATOL.   She  married  a  milkman. 

MAX.     Did  she  now? 

ANATOL.  That's  what  happens.  I  love  a  girl .  .  . 
I'm  all  the  world  to  her  .  .  .  and  then  she  marries  a 
milkman.  A  dear  child.  I  hope  it's  been  good  for 
trade. 

MAX  [as  he  puts  hilda  aside^.  Milko  !  [Then  the 
40 


AN    EPISODE 

ninth  package.^   And  what's  'Episode'?     Nothing 
inside  but  a  httle  dust. 

ANATOL  leans  across  and  takes  the  little  envelope 
from  him. 

ANATOL.  Dust!    It  was  once  a  rosebud. 

MAX.  What  does  '  Episode '  mean  ? 

ANATOL.  That's  what  it  was  ...  an  episode  ...  a 
couple  of  hours'  romance.  Pathetic,  isn't  it.''  Noth- 
ing left  of  its  sweetness  but  dust ! 

MAX.  Most  pathetic.  But  one  might  call  them  all 
a  little  episodic. 

ANATOL.  Not  with  such  dreadful  truth.  Of 
course,  they  all  were  .  .  .  and  I  knew  they  were  at 
the  time.  I  had  a  fine  idea  of  myself  in  those  days. 
I  used  to  catch  myself  thinking .  .  .  Poor  child, 
poor  child ! 

MAX.   Poor ....'' 

ANATOL.  When  I  was  very  young  indeed  I  saw 
myself  as  one  of  the  world's  great  heroes  of  romance. 
These  women,  I  thought ...  I  pluck  them,  crush  the 
sweetness  from  them  .  .  .  it's  the  law  of  nature  .  .  . 
then  I  throw  them  aside  as  I  pass  on.  I  know  now 
that  I'm  more  of  a  fool  than  a  hero  .  .  .  and  I'm  get- 
ting most  unpleasantly  used  to  knowing  it. 

MAX.  What  was  '  Episode  '  ? 

ANATOL.  I  caught  her  .  .  .  then  I  threw  her  aside 
. . .  crushed  her  under  my  heel. 

MAX.  Did  you  really.'' 

ANATOL.  But  I  tell  you .  .  .  they  were  the  few 
most  wonderful  moments  I  ever  passed.  Not  that 
you'd  ever  understand. 

41 


ANATOL 

MAX.  Why  not? 

ANATOL.  Because  it  sounds  nothing  at  all . . . 
unless  you  can  feel  it  as  I  felt  it. 

MAX.  I'll  try. 

ANATOL.  I  sat  at  the  piano  in  that  room  of  mine 
one  evening.  We'd  been  in  love  with  each  other 
just  two  hours.  D'you  remember  a  lamp  I  had  and 
the  curious  glowing  light  it  gave.  Think  of  that 
lamp  .  .  .  it's  most  important. 

MAX.   I've  thought  of  it. 

ANATOL.  I  sat  at  the  piano.  She  sat  at  my 
feet ...  I  remember  I  couldn't  reach  the  pedals. 
Her  head  in  my  lap  .  .  .  her  hair  loose  .  .  .  and  the 
glowing  light  making  such  shadows  in  it !  I  let  one 
hand  wander  on  the  keys  .  .  .  the  other  was  pressed 
against  her  lips. 

MAX.  What  else.? 

ANATOL.  Isn't  that  like  you  ?  Nothing  else! 
We'd  loved  each  other  for  only  an  hour  or  two. 
It  was  our  first  solitude  ...  it  was  to  be  our  last.  She 
said  it  would  be.  But  I  knew  that  she  loved  me 
madly  .  .  .  the  very  air  was  shimmering  with  it. 
Would  you  have  noticed  that."^  Do  you  wonder  I  felt 
a  demi-god  and  only  thought .  .  .  Oh,  you  poor,  poor 
child!  What  was  it  to  me.''  An  episode.  I  should 
hardly  cease  to  feel  her  kisses  on  my  hand  before 
she'd  begin  to  slip  into  the  shadows  of  memory. 
But  she'd  never  forget .  .  .  never  be  able  to  forget. 
Some  women  can  .  .  .  but  not  she.  She  lay  there  at 
my  feet  pouring  out  her  soul  in  love.  I  knew  that 
I  was  the  whole  world  to  her .  .  .  and  always  would 

4i» 


AN    EPISODE 

be .  .  .  one  is  so  certain  of  these  things  sometimes. 
While  to  me .  .  .  she  and  her  love  were  just  an 
episode. 

MAX.  Who  was  the  lady? 

ANATOL.  You  knew  her  ...  we  met  her  at  supper 
once. 

MAX.  Did  we?  Sounds  too  romantic  a  person  for 
any  supper  I  ever  went  to. 

AKATOL,.  Not  a  bit.  You'll  laugh  when  I  tell 
you.     She  belonged  to  a .  .  . 

MAX.  Theatre? 

ANATOL,.  No  ...  a  circus. 

MAX.  Not  Bianca? 

ANATOL.  Yes  .  .  .  Bianca.  I  never  told  you  I  met 
her  again  after  that  night. 

MAX.  D'you  mean  to  say  that  Bibi  was  in  love 
with  you? 

ANATOL.  She  was.  I  met  her  in  the  street  ...  it 
seems  they  went  off  to  Russia  the  next  morning. 

MAX.  And  a  good  job  for  your  romance  they  did. 

ANATOL.  Of  course!  Because  it's  somebody  you 
knew  the  whole  thing  becomes  commonplace.  Oh, 
Max  .  .  .  why  don't  you  learn  how  to  be  in  love? 

MAX.  Teach  me. 

ANATOL.  Learn  to  tune  yourself  up  to  the  supreme 
moments. 

MAX.  With  a  little  pig,no-playing  and  a  glowing 
light  upon  her  shimmering  hair? 

ANATOL.  Well .  .  .  that's  how  I  get  wonders  out  of 
life.  You  saw  no  more  in  that  girl  than  you  could 
in  that  lamp  of  mine.     A  bit  of  glass,  wasn't  it .  . . 

43 


ANATOL 

with  a  light  behind?  What  a  way  to  walk  through 
the  world  .  .  .  eyes  open  and  imagination  shut !  Do 
you  wonder  you  find  nothing  in  it?  You  swallow 
life  whole,  Max  ...  I  taste  it. 

MAX.  You've  only  to  fall  in  love  to  make  the 
universe  all  you  want  it  to  be ! 

ANATOL.  That's  how  it's  done 

MAX.  How  many  glowing  lamps  would  it  take  to 
work  Bianca  up  to  that  pitch? 

ANATOL.  I  know  what  she  felt  when  I  kissed  her. 

MAX.   I  know  better. 

ANATOL.    Do   you? 

MAX.  Because  I've  never  kissed  her  .  .  .  and  never 
needed  to  imagine  her  anything  but  the  pretty,  harm- 
less, worthless  little  baggage  she  is. 

ANATOL.    Oh ! 

MAX.  Whatever  else  you  want  to  find  in  her  yod 
must  put  there  first. 

ANATOL.  It  wasn't  so  then  ...  it  wasn't.  Oh  ...  I 
know  all  about  the  girl.  She'd  kissed  men  before, 
and  she  has  kissed  them  since. 

MAX.  With  just  the  same  kisses  that  she  kissed  you. 

ANATOL.  No.     I  wish  I  hadn't  told  you. 

MAX.  Never  mind.  You  felt  all  you  felt  and  all 
she  ought  to  have  felt  as  well. 

ANATOL.  Have  you  ever  seen  much  of  her? 

MAX.  Quite  a  lot. 

ANATOL.  Have  you? 

MAX.  Don't  distress  yourself.  She's  a  witty  little 
devil,  and  we  always  liked  a  chat. 

ANATOL.  A  friendly  chat? 
44 


AN    EPISODE 

MAX.  Not  a  bit  more. 

ANATOL.  Then  I  swear  to  you,  Max  .  .  .  that  girl 
loved  me  to  distraction. 

MAX.  Quite  so.  Let's  get  on  with  the  others  [^he 
takes  a  tenth  packet^ .  '  Could  I  but  tell  the  meaning 
of  your  smile,  you  green-eyed  '  .  .  . 

ANATOL.  I  say  .  .  .  d'you  know  that  circus  is  back 
again  ? 

MAX.  Yes  .  .  .   she's  still  with  it. 

ANATOL.  Sure? 

MAX.  Quite.  I  shall  see  her  this  evening  .  .  .  she's 
coming  to  call. 

ANATOL.  Well !  Why  on  earth  didn't  you  tell  me 
that  before? 

MAX.  What's  it  to  do  with  you?  Your  past  is 
dead  .  .  .  look  at  it. 

ANATOL.   But .  .  . 

MAX.  Besides  .  .  .  yesterday's  romance  warmed  up. 
Don't  risk  that. 

ANATOL.  I  wonder  if  I  could  feel  the  same  for  her 
again. 

MAX.  There  are  other  dangers.  You  take  great 
care  of  this  Episode  of  yours.  Don't  let  it  catch 
cold. 

ANATOL.  But  I  mustn't  miss  a  chance  of  seeing  her. 

MAX.  She's  wiser  than  you !  Has  she  ever  sent 
you  even  a  postcard?  But  perhaps  she  forgot  all 
about  you. 

ANATOL.  Max.  .  .  why  not  believe  me  when  I  tell 
you  ...  ? 

MAX.  Well? 

45 


ANATOL 

ANATOL.  That  the  hour  we  spent  together  was  one 
of  those  things  that  never  fade. 

There's  a  knock  at  the  door  of  the  flat. 
MAX.  Here  she  is ! 
ANATOL.    What! 

MAX.  You  go  into  my  bedroom  and  then  slip  out. 
ANATOL.  Certainly  not. 
MAX.  You'd  much  better. 
ANATOL.  I  shall  not. 

MAX.   Stand  there  then,  where  she  won't  see  you  at 
once. 

ANATOL.  But  why  .  .  .  ? 

Still,  he  stands  in  the  shadow,  and  max  goes  to 
the  door  to  welcome  bianca.     She  is  as  he 
described  her. 
BL\NCA.  Max!     How  are  you.''     I'm  back. 
MAX.  How  are  you,  Bibi.''     Nice  of  you  to  come. 
BIANCA.  First  visit. 
MAX.  Honoured. 

BIANCA.  How's  everybody.''      Suppers  at  Sacher's 
again  now.'* 

MAX.  But    you    must    turn    up.      Sometimes    you 
didn't. 

BIANCA.    I  did. 

MAX.  Not  when  you'd  something  better  to  do. 
BIANCA.  But  you  weren't  jealous.     I  wish  they'd 
all  take  lessons  from  you.     Why  can't  a  m<xn  be  fond 
of  one  without  making  himself  a  nuisance?     Oh  .  .  . 
who's  that.'*     Making  one  jump! 

She  has  discovered  anatol,  who  comes  forward, 
silent,  expectant.     She  stares  at  him, 
46 


AN    EPISODE 

MAX.  An  old  friend,  Bibi. 

BIANCA.    Oh  .  .  . 

MAX.  Quite  a  surprise. 

ANATOL   comes  nearer,      bianca   is   desperately 
puzzled.    She  doesn't  recall  him  in  the  least. 
She  is  most  polite. 
BIANCA.  Of  course  .  .  .  we've  met .  .  . 
ANATOL.  Bianca. 
BIANCA.  Yes  ...  to  be  sure. 

ANATOL,  seizes  her  hand  quite  passionately. 
ANATOL.  Bianca. 

BIANCA,  But  .  .  .  I'm  so  stupid  .  .  .  where  was  it? 
MAX.  Tr}'^  hard  to  remem.ber. 
BIANCA.   Of  course  ...  in  Petersburg. 
ANATOL.  No  ...  it  wasn't  in  Petersburg. 

With  that  he  drops  her  hand,  takes  his  hat  and 
coat  and  goes. 
BIANCA.   Oh  .  .  . 

The  ftat  door  slams. 
MAX.  He's  gone. 

BIANCA.  But . . .  I'm  so  sorry  .  .  .  what's  wrong ....'' 
MAX.  Don't  you  really  remember  him? 
BIANCA.  Yes  .  .  .  quite  well.     But  I  can't  place  him 
for  the  life  of  me. 

MAX.  Anatol,  Bibi .  .  .  Anatol. 
BIANCA  Iher  brow  wrinkling  in  puzzlemenf].  Ana- 
tol..  .  Anatol? 

MAX.  Anatol  ...  at    the    piano  .  .  .   and    a    lamp 
casting  shadows  on  your  shimmering  hair.     Here  .  .  . 
not  in  Petersburg  .  .  .  three  years  ago. 
A  light  breaks  on  bianca. 
47 


ANATOL 

BiANCA.  Well  ...  of  course  .  .  .  Anatol !    How 
stupid  of  me.     Oh,  do  call  him  back.     Anatol! 
She  makes  for  the  door. 

MAX.  No  .  .  .  he's  gone. 

She  looks  from  the  wmdom. 

BIANCA.  There  he  goes. 

MAX   [behind  herl^.  Yes  .  .  .  there  he  goes. 

BIANCA  [calling].  Anatol! 

MAX.  No  use  ...  he  can't  hear. 

BIANCA.  You  will  apologise  to  him,  won't  you? 
I've  hurt  his  feelings.     Such  a  nice  fellow. 

MAX.  You're  quite   sure  you  remember  him? 

BIANCA.  Why,  yes !  But,  you  know,  there  is  some 
one  in  Petersburg  as  like  him  as  two  peas. 

MAX.  I'll  tell  him  so. 

BIANCA.  Besides  .  .  .  when  you  haven't  given  a  man 
a  thought  for  three  years  .  .  .  and  there  he  suddenly 
is  plumped  in  front  of  you !  One  can't  remember 
everybody. 

MAX  [grimly  smiling].  Let's  shut  the  window... 
it's  gone  chilly. 

BIANCA.  I  shall  run  against  him  somehow. 

MAX.  No  doubt  [he  picks  up  and  holds  out  to  her 
the  little  envelope  marked  '  Episode  '].  D'you  know 
what  this  is? 

BIANCA.   What? 

MAX.  The  rosebud  you  were  wearing  that  evening 
...the  evening,  Bibi  .  .  . 

BIANCA.  Has  he  kept  it? 

MAX.  As  you  see. 

BIANCA.  D'you  mean  he  was  in  love  with  me? 
48 


AN    EPISODE 

MAX.  Passionately  .  .  .    unfathomably  .  .  .    and    for 
ever  and  a  day.    But  so  he  was  with  all  these  others. 
BiANCA  surveys  the  table  full. 

BiANCA.  All  that  lot ! 

MAX.  We've  been  sorting  you  out. 

BIANCA.   Sorting  us  .  .  .  ? 

MAX.   Sorting  you. 

BIANCA.  Oh,  indeed!    Where  do  I  go.'* 

MAX.  Here.     / 

He  gravely  drops  *  Episode  '  m   the  fire. 

BIANCA.   Well! 

MAX.  All  the  revenge  I  can  give  him  you  see. 
But  don't  be  cross  ...  I  want  to  hear  your  news. 

BIANCA.  I  don't  think  I  feel  like  it  now, 

MAX.  Bibi  .  .  .  don't  quarrel  with  m  e.  Let's  hear 
about  the  fellow  in  Petersburg,  who's  as  hke  him  as 
two  peas. 

BIANCA.  Don't  be  absurd. 

MAX.  Or  anything  else  you  like.  I'll  tell  you  how 
to  begin. 

He  settles  her  m  a  big  armchair,  and  settles  him- 
self in  another  beside  her. 

MAX.  Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  big,  big 
city . . . 

BIANCA  .  . .  And  into  the  city  came  a  big,  big 
circus  .  .  . 

MAX.  .  .  .  And  in  the  circus  there  was  a  tiny,  tiny 
girl . .  . 

BIANCA.  . . .  Who  jumped  through  a  big,  big 
hoop. 

49 


ANATOL 

MAX.  Now  we*re  getting  on.     And  in  a  box  every 
evening  .  . . 

BiANCA.  Yes  ...  in  a  box  every  evening  there  sat 
a  very  good-looking  man  .  .  . 

MAX.  Quite  so  .  .  .  and  then  ? 

They  settle  to  their  friendly  chat. 


60 


IV 
KEEPSAKES 


KEEPSAKES 

Emily's  sitting-room  is  quite  prettily  furnished,  and 
looks  over  some  gardens,  where  the  trees  are  just 
now  breaking  irito  leaf.  It  is  late  in  the  after- 
noon. Alone  in  the  room  and  at  the  writing- 
desk  sits  ANATOL.  He  is  feverishly  searching 
the  drawers,     emily  comes  in  and  finds  him. 

EMILY.  What  are  you  doing  at  my  desk .  .  . 
rummaging  about  ?     Anatol ! 

He  hardly  looks  up  even. 
ANATOL.   I  have  a  perfect  right  to.     And  it's  as 
^^e\l  I  did. 

EMILY.  What  have  you  found  .  .  .  except  your  own 
letters  ? 

ANATOL.  My  letters!     What  do  you  call  these.'' 
Two  tiny  objects  which  he  had  placed  safely  on 
the  top  of  the  desk.     He  shows  them  to  her  in 
his  outstretched  palm. 
EMILY.    What? 

ANATOL.  These  two  stones.  This  one's  a  ruby  .  .  . 
and  this  other  dark  one.  I've  never  seen  them  before. 
I  didn't  give  them  you. 

EMILY  turns   away,   and  for  a  moment  doesnH 
answer.      When  she  does  it  is  very  quietly. 
EMILY.  No  ...  I  had  quite  forgotten  them. 
52 


ANATOL 

ANATOL  [still  brutally,  sneeringly  angry'\.  Had 
you !  They  were  hidden  away  safe  enough  in  the  bot- 
tom of  that  drawer.  Come  on  .  .  .  you'd  better  con- 
fess. Don't  lie.  Oh,  all  you  women  do!  Won't  you.? 
Don't  pretend  to  be  indignant.  Yes,  of  course  .  .  .  sulk 
when  you're  found  out.  I  want  to  know  what  else  there 
is.  Where  have  you  hidden  your  other  treasures? 
He  returns  to  his  ransacking. 

EMILY.  I  haven't  any  others. 

ANATOL.  Haven't  you.^" 

EMILY  \^quite  passive^.  You  needn't  look.  I 
swear  I  haven't. 

ANATOL.  Well  then  .  .  .  what  about  these? 

EMILY.  I  suppose  I  was  wrong.  I  shouldn't  have  . .  . 
He  leaves  the  desk  and  faces  her. 

ANATOL.  You  suppose  !  Now  Emily  .  .  .  to-morrow 
we  were  to  be  married.  I  thought  we'd  got  rid  of 
the  past .  .  .  utterly.  Didn't  I  bring  you  everything 
I  had  that  could  remind  me  of  mine  .  .  .  letters,  keep- 
sakes, everything  .  .  .  and  didn't  we  burn  them?  And 
your  rings  and  bracelets  and  earrings !  Haven't  we 
got  rid  of  them  too  ...  all  of  them?  Given  them 
away  .  .  .  thrown  them  into  the  river  .  .  .  out  of  the 
window  .  .  .  anywhere?  And  you  s  w  o  r  e  to  me  that 
you  had  done  with  it  all .  .  .  wiped  everything  out ! 
You  said  that  now  you  knew  you'd  never  really  been 
in  love  with  any  one  before.  And  I  believed  you !  I 
suppose  we  always  do  believe  women  when  the  lies 
are  pleasant  ones  .  .  .  from  their  first  lie  to  their  last 
.  .  .  because  we  want  to. 

EMILY.  Shall  I  swear  it  again? 
54 


KEEPSAKES 

ANATOL.  What's  the  good?  I've  done  with  you  .  .  . 
done  with  you.  Oh,  you  were  very  clever  about  it ! 
To  see  you  standing  there  in  front  of  the  fire  watch- 
ing those  letters  and  things  burn  .  .  .  poking  them 
down  so  that  nothing  should  escape  .  .  .  wouldn't  one 
have  thought  you  were  only  thankful  to  be  rid  of 
every  speck  of  your  past?  You  sobbed  in  my  arms 
that  day  by  the  river  when  we  threw  that  bracelet 
into  the  water!  Tears  of  repentance?  All  a  sham! 
Now  I'll  tell  you  ...  I  didn't  trust  you  in  spite 
of  them.  I  came  here  to  find  out  for  myself  .  .  .  and 
I  have  found  out.  '[She  is  sitting  silent,  her  head 
awayJ]      Say  something.     Defend  yourself. 

EMILY.  No  .  .  .  you've  made  up  your  mind  to  have 
done  with  me. 

ANATOL.  But  I  want  to  know  about  these  two 
things.     Why  keep  just  these  two? 

EMILY.  You  don't  love  me  any  more.  - 

ANATOL.  Emily  ...  I  want  to  know  the  truth. 

EMILY.  What's  the  good  if  you  don't  love  me  any 
more  ? 

ANATOL.  Tell  me  the  truth.     Perhaps  .  . . 

EMILY.    Well? 

ANATOL.  Perhaps  you  can  make  things  seem  a  bit 
better.     I  don't  want  to  think  badly  of  you,  Emily. 
She  turns  a  little  towards  him. 

EMILY.  D'you  forgive  me  ? 

ANATOL.  Tell  me  the  truth. 

EMILY.  If  I  do  .  .  .  will  you  forgive  me? 

He   doesn't   answer   for   a  moment.     Then   his 
voice  half  hardens  again. 
55 


ANATOL 

ANATOL.  This  ruby !  What  about  it .  .  .  why 
have  3'ou  kept  it  ? 

EMILY.  Will  you  be  patient? 

ANATOL.  Yes  .  .  .  yes.     Go  on. 

After  a  moment  she  does;  speaking  quite  tone- 
lessly,  her  head  bent. 

EMILY.  It  came  out  of  a  locket.     It  fell  out. 

ANATOL.  Who  gave  you  the  locket.'' 

EMILY.  Oh  .  .  .  that  wasn't  it.  It  was  because  of 
.  .  .  the  day  I  was  wearing  it. 

ANATOL.  But  who  gavc  it  you.'' 

EMILY.  What  does  it  matter?  My  mother,  I 
think.  Oh,  Anatol ...  if  I  were  the  bad  lot  you 
think  me,  I  could  easily  say  I  kept  the  stone  because 
my  mother  gave  it  me.  You'd  believe  that.  I  kept 
it  because  I  didn't  want  ever  to  forget  that  day  I 
nearly  lost  it. 

ANATOL.  Go  on. 

EMILY.  I  am  so  glad  to  be  telling  you.  But 
listen  now.  You'd  laugh  at  my  being  jealous  of  the 
first  woman  you  were  ever  in  love  with,  wouldn't 
you? 

ANATOL.  What's  that  to  do  with  it? 

EMILY.  But  I  dare  say  you're  still  in  love  with  the 
memory  of  her.  It's  the  sort  of  old  unhappiness 
one  never  wants  quite  to  lose,  isn't  it?  The  day  I 
dropped  that  ruby  means  a  lot  to  me,  because  it  was 
the  day  I  had  my  first  glimpse  of .  .  .  everything 
that  you  and  I  can  mean  to  each  other  now,  if  we 
will.  Oh  ...  if  I'd  never  had  to  learn  how  to  love  .  .  . 
d'you  think  I  could  love  j^ou  as  I  do  ?     Anatol  ...  if 

56 


KEEPSAKES 

we'd  met  then...  before  we  knew  what  love  meant 
.  .  .  should  we  have  given  each  other  a  thought? 
Don't  shake  your  head.  You  once  said  that  to  me 
yourself. 

ANATOL.  I  did. 

EMILY.  You  told  me  not  to  be  so  sorry  that  things 
were  ...  as  they  were  .  .  .  because  if  we  hadn't  both 
learnt  by  experience,  we  could  never  love  each  other 
as  we  do. 

ANATOL  l^bitterly^.  Yes  .  .  .  that's  all  the  consola- 
tion one  has  in  loving  a  woman  who  .  .  .  [^he  swallows 
the  insult^  oh,  never  mind! 

EMILY  [^with  digniti/^.  I'm  telling  3'ou  the  truth 
about  this.  I  kept  it  to  remind  me  of  the  day 
that .  .  . 

ANATOL.  Say  the  words ! 

EMILY.  You  like  to  humiliate  me.  It  was  the  very 
first  time  that ...  I  was  just  a  silly  girl.  What 
was  I .  .  .  sixteen? 

ANATOL.  He  was  twenty  .  . .  and  tall  and  dark  . .  . 
I'm  sure. 

EMILY  [^quite  simpli/^.  D'you  know  I  don't  remem- 
ber, dear.  I  remember  the  wood  we  were  in,  and  the 
wind  shaking  the  trees.  It  was  in  the  spring.  Yes 
.  .  .  and  the  sun  shone  through  the  branches  and  made 
the  primroses  look  so  bright. 

ANATOL  paces  the  room  with  a  sudden  access  of 
fury. 

ANATOL.  And  you  were  stolen  from  me  before  I 
ever  knew  you !  Don't  you  hate  him  .  .  .  the  very 
thought  of  him? 

57 


ANATOL 

EMILY.  Perhaps  he  gave  me  to  you,  Anatol.  [That 
brings  him  to  a  stand.^  No  .  .  .  whatever  happens  I 
don't  hate  the  thought  of  him  ...  I  won't  pretend 
I  ever  did.  Don't  you  know  I  love  you  as  I  have 
never  loved  any  one.''  And  no  one  has  ever  loved 
you  as  I  love  you.  But  in  spite  of  that .  .  .  and 
even  though  when  you  kissed  me  first  you  made  me 
forget  every  one  else  ...  all  I'd  ever  gone  through 
.  .  .  wiped  it  out  utterly  .  .  .  you  can't  make  me  forget, 
and  you  can't  make  me  regret  the  moments  that  made 
me  a  woman. 

ANATOL.  You  love  m  e  ,  do  you? 

EMILY.  I  hardly  remember  what  he  looked  like  .  .  . 
or  anything  he  said. 

ANATOL.  Only  that  he  kissed  you .  .  .  held  you 
close  to  him  .  .  .  turned  your  ignorance  into  knowl- 
edge and  your  innocence  into  guilt.  And  you're 
grateful  for  that .  .  .  grateful !  Good  God  .  .  .  can't 
you  see  what  this  means  to  me  .  .  .  stirring  up  again 
all  this  horrible  past  when  I'd  almost  forgotten  that 
there  ever  was  or  could  be  any  other  man  in  the  world 
for  you  but  me. 

She  looks  at  him  and  then  speaks  with  a  certain 
cold  sadness. 

EMILY.  Yes  .  .  .  you  don't  understand.  I  think  you 
were  right.     We'd  better  part. 

ANATOL  [not  quite  prepared  for  this^.  What  else 
d'you  expect  of  me? 

EMILY  [emotional  for  the  first  time^.  I  envy  a 
woman  who  can  lie.  It's  a  costly  business  telling  the 
truth.      But    there's    one    thing    I'd    like    to    know. 

58 


KEEPSAKES 

Why  you  have  always  begged  me  to  be  quite 
straight  with  you.  How  many  times  have  you  said 
that  there  was  nothing  you  couldn't  forgive  me 
except  a  lie.  So  I  confessed  everything  to  you  .  .  . 
and  never  cared  how  bad  I  made  myself  out.  I  told 
you  that  the  only  good  thing  about  me  was  my  love 
for  you.  Any  other  woman  would  have  made  ex- 
cuses ...  I  didn't.  I  let  you  know  that  I  was  vain 
and  wanton  .  .  .  that  I'd  wasted  and  sold  myself .  .  . 
that  I  wasn't  worth  your  loving.  I  told  you  that 
before  I'd  let  you  come  near  me.  I  hid  away  from 
you,  didn't  I.^*  It  was  just  because  I  loved  you  so. 
You  found  me  and  you  cried  for  me.  But  I  still  said 
No.  I  didn't  want  to  drag  you  down  .  .  .  although 
your  love  meant  more  to  me  than  anything  else  had 
ever  meant  in  the  world.  I've  never  loved  any  one 
but  you.  In  spite  of  everything  you  took  me.  I 
was  so  glad  and  so  afraid !  But  why  have  you  given 
me  back  bit  by  bit  all  the  beauty  and  self-respect 
that  the  others  had  robbed  me  of  .  .  .  why  have  you 
made  me  innocent  again  by  being  great  enough  to 
be  able  to  forgive  ...  if  now  .  .  .  ? 

ANATOL.  \^ecJioing^  her  as  she  pauses^.     Now.? 

EMILY.  If  now  you're  done  with  me  only  because  I 
am  just  like  all  the  others.'' 

ANATOL.  No,  no,  dear .  .  .  you're  not,  you're  not. 

EMILY.  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  then.?     Shall 
I  throw  it  away? 

She  fingers  the  little  ruby  disdainfully. 

ANATOL  [^passionately  self -reproachful^.     What  Is 
there    great    about    me?     I'm    worse    than    human. 

59 


ANATOL 

Yes  .  .  .  throw  it  away.  You  dropped  it,  did  you, 
among  the  primroses .  .  .  and  it  glittered  in  the 
sun  .  .  . 

They  sit  there  silently;  the  poor  little  trinket  on 
the  table  between  them.     Then  he  rouses. 
ANATOL.  It's  dark  .  .  .  let's  go  out. 
EMILY.  It'll  be  so  cold. 

ANATOL.  No  .  .  .  you  Can  feel  the  Spring's  in  the 
air. 

EMILY.  Very  well,  darling. 

She  moves,  and  as  he  moves  too  his  eye  lights  on 
the  other  stone  he  had  found. 
ANATOL.  But  what  about  this  one.'' 
EMILY.    That? 

ANATOL.  Yes,     the     black     stone .  .  .  what     about 
that.? 

She  takes  it  up  with  care. 
EMILY.  Don't  you  know  what  it  is.? 
ANATOL.  It  looks  like  a  .  .  . 
EMILY.  It's  a  black  diamond ! 

Her  eyes  glitter  as  she  holds  it, 
ANATOL.   What.? 
EMILY.  They're  very  scarce. 

ANATOL    [Jiardly    articulate^ .  Why  .  .  .  have  you 
kept  it? 

EMILY.  It's  worth  a  hundred  pounds  ! 

ANATOL.    Ah! 

He  snatches  the  stone  from  her  and  throws  it^ 
mto  the  fire.     She  shrieks  out  savagely  .  .  . 
60 


KEEPSAKES 

EMILY.  What  are  you  doing? 

Then  throws  herself  on  her  knees  and  snatching 
up  the  tongs  does  her  best  to  rescue  it.  He 
watches  her  grimly  for  a  little;  the  firelight 
makes  ugly  shadows  on  her  face.  Then  he 
says  quietly  .  .  . 
ANATOL.  That  was  your  price,  was  it  ? 
And  he  leaves  her. 


61 


V 
A   FAREWELL    SUPPER 


A   FAREWELL    SUPPER 


In  a  private  room  at  Sacher^s  restaurant  one  evening, 
about  supper-time,  we  find  anatol  and  max. 
MAX  is  comfortable  upon  a  sofa  with  a  cigarette. 
ANATOL  stands  by  the  door  discussing  the  menu 
with  the  waiter. 

MAX.  Haven't  you  done.? 

ANATOL,.  Just.     Don't  forget  now. 

This  to   the  waiter,   who  disappears,     anatol 
begins  to  pace  the  room,  nervously. 

MAX.   Suppose  she  don't  turn  up  after  all. 

ANATOL.  It's  only  ten.     She  couldn't  be  here  yet. 

MAX.  The  ballet  must  be  over  long  ago. 

ANATOL.  Give  her  time  to  take  her  paint  off  and 
dress.     Shall  I  go  over  and  wait  for  her.'* 

MAX.  Don't  spoil  the  girl. 

ANATOL  [mirthlessly  laughing^.  Spoil  her... 
spoil  her ! 

MAX.  I  know  .  .  .  j^ou  behave  like  a  brute  to  her. 
Well .  .  .   that's  one  way  of  spoiling  a  woman. 

ANATOL.  No  doubt.  [Then,  suddenly  stopping 
before  his  friend.^  But,  my  dear  Max . .  .  when  I 
tell  you  .  .  .  oh,  Lord ! 

MAX.  Well.? 

65 


ANATOL 

ANATOL.   .  .  .  What  a  critical  evening  this  is ! 

MAX.  Critical !     Have  j^ou  asked  her  to  marry  you  ? 

ANATOL.  Worse  than  that. 

MAX  \_sitting  up  very  straight^.  You've  married 
her.?     WeU! 

ANATOL.  ^Vhat  a  Philistine  you  are.  When  will 
you  learn  that  there  are  spiritual  crises  besides 
which  such  commonplace  matters  as  .  .  . 

MAX  ]^S2ibsiding  againl.  We  know!  If  you've  only 
got  one  of  those  on  I  wouldn't  worry  her  with  it. 

ANATOL  [grimly^.  Wouldn't  you?  What  makes 
this  evening  critical,  my  friend,  is  that  it's  to  be 
the  last. 

MAX  \_sitting  up  agam'\.  What.? 

ANATOL.  Yes  .  .  .  our  farewell  supper. 

MAX.  What  am  I  doing  at  it? 

AKATOL.  You  are  to  be  the  undertaker ...  to  our 
dead  love. 

MAX.  Thank  you !    I  shall  have  a  pleasant  evening. 

ANATOL.  All  the  week  I've  been  putting  it  off. 

MAX.  You  should  be  hungry  enough  for  it  by  this 
time. 

ANATOL.  Oh,  we've  had  supper  every  night.  But 
I've  never  known  how  to  begin  .  .  .  the  right  words  to 
use.     I  tell  you  .  .  .  it's  nervous  work. 

MAX.  If  you  expect  me  to  prompt  you  .  .  . 

ANATOL.  I  expect  you  to  stand  by  me.      Smooth 
things  down  .  .  .  keep  her  quiet .  .  .  explain. 
»      MAX.   Then  suppose  you  explain  first. 

ANATOL  considers  for  half  a  second.     Then  . . . 

ANATOL.  She  bores  me. 
66 


A    FAREWELL    SUPPER 

MAX.  I  see !  And  there's  another  she . . ,  who 
doesn't? 

ANATOL.  Yes. 

MAX  l^with  fullest  comprehensioTi].  Ah! 

ANATOL  [^quite  rapturously/^.  And  what  another! 

MAX.  Please  describe  her. 

ANATOL.  She  makes  me  feel  as  Fve  never  felt 
before.     She  ...  I  can't  describe  her. 

MAX.  No  .  .  .  one  never  can  till  it's  all  over. 

ANATOL.  She's  a  little  girl  that .  .  .  well,  she's  an 
andante  of  a  girl. 

MAX.  Not  out  of  the  ballet  again.? 

ANATOL.  No,  no  I  She's  like  a  waltz  .  .  .  simple, 
alluring,  dreamy.  Yes,  that's  what  she's  like.  Don't 
you  know  .  .  .  ?  No,  of  course  you  don't !  And  how 
can  I  explain?  When  I'm  with  her  I  find  I  grow 
simple  too.  If  I  take  her  a  bunch  of  violets  . . .  the 
tears  come  into  her  eyes. 

MAX.  Try  her  with   some  diamonds. 

ANATOL.  I  knew  you  wouldn't  understand  in  the 
least.  I  should  no  more  think  of  bringing  her  to 
a  place  like  this  .  . .  !  Those  little  eighteenpenny 
places  smt  her.  You  know  .  .  .  Soup  or  Fish :  Entree : 
Sweets  o  r  Cheese.  We've  been  to  one  every  night 
this  week. 

MAX.  You  said  you'd  had  supper  with  Mimi. 

ANATOL.  So  I  have.  Two  suppers  every  night  this 
week !  One  with  the  girl  I  want  to  win,  and  the 
other  with  the  girl  I  want  to  lose.  And  I  haven't 
done  either  yet. 

MAX.  Suppose  you  take  Mimi  to  the  Soup  o  r  Fish, 
67 


ANATOL 

and  bring  the  little  Andante  girl  here.     That  might 
do  it. 

ANATOL.  That  shows  you  don't  understand.  Such 
a  child !  If  you'd  seen  her  face  when  I  ordered  a  one 
and  tenpenny  bottle  of  wine. 

MAX.  Tears  in  her  eyes? 

ANATOL.   She  wouldn't  let  me. 
^^--MSxT'What  have  you  been  drinking.'* 

ANATOL.  Shilling  claret  before  ten.  After  ten, 
champagne.     Such  is  life. 

MAX.  Your  life ! 

ANATOL.  But  I've  had  enough  of  it.  To  a  man 
with  my  nice  sense  of  honour  . . .  my  nice  sense  of 
honour,  Max. 

MAX.  I  heard. 

ANATOL.  If  I  go  on  like  this  much  longer  I  shall 
lose  my  self-respect. 

MAX.  So  shall  I  if  I  have  much  more  to  do  with 
yoiL. 

/^NATOL.  How  can  I  play-act   at  love  if  I  don't 
"feel  it.? 

MAX.  No  doubt  it's  better  acting  when  you  do. 

ANATOL.  I  remember  telling  Mimi  in  so  many 
words  .  .  .  when  we  first  met .  . .  when  we  swore  that 
nothing  should  part  us  .  .  .  My  dear,  I  said,  which- 
ever first  discovers  that  tlic  thing  is  wearing  thin 
must  tell  the  other  one  straight  out. 

MAX.  Besides  swearing  that  nothing  should  part 
you.     Good ! 

ANATOL.  If  I've  said  that  once  I've  said  it  fifty 
times.       We     are     perfectly     free,     and    when     the 

68 


A    FAREWELL    SUPPER 

time  comes  we'll  go  each  our  own  way  without 
any  fuss.  Only  remember,  I  said,  what  I  can't  stand 
is  deceit. 

MAX.  Then  I'm  sure  supper  ought  to  go  off  very 
well. 

ANATOL.  Yes  .  .  .  but  when  it  comes  to  the  point .  .  . 
somehow  I  can't  tell  her.  She'll  cry.  I  know  she'll 
cry,  and  I  can't  bear  that.  Suppose  she  cries  and  I 
fall  in  love  with  her  again  .  .  .  then  it  won't  be  fair  to 
the  other  one. 

MAX.  And  the  one  thing  you  can't  stand  is  deceit. 

ANATOL.  It'll  be  easier  with  you  here.  There's  an 
honest,  unromantic  air  about  you  that  would  dry  any 
tears. 

MAX.  Happy  to  oblige.  And  how  shall  I 
start.?  Tell  her  she's  better  off  without  you.  How 
can  1? 

ANATOL.  Something  of  that  sort.  Tell  her  she 
won't  be  losing  so  much. 

MAX.  Yes  .  .  . 

ANATOL.  There  are  hundreds  of  better-looking 
men  .  .  .  men  better  off. 

MAX.  Handsomer,  richer .  .  .  and  cleverer. 

ANATOL  [^half  liumorously'\,  I  shouldn't  exaggerate. 
At  this  point  the  waiter  shows  in  the  mimi  in 
question.    A  lovely  ladys 

WAITER.  This  way,  Madame. 

She  doesn't  seem  to  be  in  the  best  of  tempers. 

MIMI.  Oh  ...  so  here  you  are ! 

ANATOL  [cheerfully'].  Here  we  are.  [^He  takes  off 
her  wrap  with  much  tenderness. 1^     Let  me. 

69 


ANATOL 

MiMi.  You're  a  nice  one,  aren't  you?     I  looked  up 
and  down  .  .  . 

ANATOL.  A  good  thing  you  hadn't  far  to  come. 
MIMI.  If  you  say  you'll  be  there  for  me  you  ought. 
Hullo,  Max.     Come  on  .  .  .  let's  feed. 

There's  a  knock  at  the  door. 
MIMI.   Come  in!     What's  he  knocking  for? 

It  is  the  WAITER  again,  expectant  of  his  orders, 
which  ANATOL  gives  him  .  .  . 
ANATOL.  Bring  supper. 

MIMI  sits  at  the  table  and,  cat-like,  fusses  her 
appearance. 
MIMI.  You  weren't  in  front. 

ANATOL    [^with    careful    candour^.  No...  I    had 
to... 

MIMI.  You  didn't  miss  much.    It  was  precious  dull. 
MAX.  What  was  on  before  the  ballet? 
MIMI.  I  don't  know.    I  go  straight  to  the  dressing- 
room  and  then  I  go  on  the  stage.     I  don't  bother 
about  anything  else.     Anatol .  .  .  I've  a  bit  of  news 
for  you. 

ANATOL  [/lis  brow  wrinkling  a  littlell.  Have  you, 
my  dear?     Important? 

MIMI.  Myes :  .  .  may  surprise  you  a  bit .  .  .  praps. 

The  supper  arrives  .  .  .  oysters  first. 
ANATOL.  Well .  .  .  I've  some  for  you,  too. 
MIMI.  Wait  a  second.     It's  no  concern  of  his. 
This  with  a  cock  of  the  head  towards  the  well- 
mannered,  unconscious  waiter. 
ANATOL.  You  needn't  wait  .  .  .  we'll  ring. 
The  waiter  departs.     Supper  has  begun. 
70 


A    FAREWELL    SUPPER 

ANATOL.    Well? 

MiMi  {between  her  oysters].  I  think  praps  it  will 
surprise  you,  Anatol .  .  .  though  I  don't  see  why  it 
should.     Praps  it  won't .  .  .  and  it  oughtn't  to. 

MAX.  They've  raised  your  salary ! 

ANATOL  [watching  her].  Tsch. 

MIMI  [ignoring  this  levity].  No  .  .  .  why  should  it? 
I  say  .  .  .  are  these  Ostend  or  Whitstable? 

ANATOL.  Ostend  .  .  .  Ostend. 

MIMI.  I  d  o  like  oysters.     They're  the  only  things 
you  can  go  on  eating  and  eating  .  .  . 
-^  MAX  [who  is  doing  his  full  share] .  And  eating  and 
eating  and  eating. 

MIMI.  That's  what  I  always  say. 

ANATOL.  Well .  .  .  what's  this  news  ? 

MIMI.  D'you  remember  something  you  once  said? 

ANATOL.  Which  of  the  hundreds? 

MIMI.  Mimi  .  .  .  oh,  I  remember  your  saying  it .  . . 
The  one  thing  I  can't  bear  is  deceit ! 

ANATOL,  not  to  mention  max,  is  really  taken  aback. 

ANATOL.    What! 

MIMI.  Always  tell  me  the  whole  truth  before  it's 
too  late. 

ANATOL.  Yes,  I  meant ... 

MIMI  [roguish  for  a  moment].  I  say  .  .  .  suppose  it 
was! 

ANATOL.  What   d'you   mean? 

MIMI.  Oh,  it's  all  right  ...  it  isn't.  Though  it 
might  be  to-morrow. 

ANATOL  [hot  and  cold].  Will  you  please  explain 
what  you  mean? 

71 


ANATOL 

MAX  [unheeded^.  What's  this? 

MiMi  [meeting  a  fierce  eye'\.  You  eat  your  oysters, 
Anatol,  or  I  won't. 

ANATOi..  Damn  the  oysters ! 

MIMI.  You  go  on  with  them. 

ANATOL.  You  go  on  with  what  you  were  saying. 
I  don't  like  these  jokes. 

MIMI.  Now  didn't  we  agree  that  when  it  came  to 
the  point  we  weren't  to  make  any  fuss  but .  .  .  ! 
Well ...  it  has  come. 

ANATOL,  [hereft  of  hreatK\.  D'you  mean  .  .  .  ? 

MIMI.  Yes,  I  do.  This  is  the  last  time  we  have 
supper  together. 

ANATOL.  Oh !  Why  .  .  .  would  you  mind  telling 
me.'' 

MIMI.  All  is  over  between  us. 

ANATOL.    Is    it! 

MAX  [unable  to  he  silent  longer].  Admirable! 

MIMI  [a  little  haughty^.  Nothing  admirable  about 
it.     It's  true. 

ANATOL  [with  trembling  calm].  My  dear  Mimi  .  .  . 
please  let  me  understand.  Some  one  has  asked  you 
to  marry  him? 

MIMI.   Oh  ...   I  wouldn't  throw  you  over  for  that. 

ANATOL.  Throw    me    over! 

MIMI  [with  her  last  oyster].  It's  no  use,  Anatol. 
I'm  in  love  .■-.  .  head  over  ears. 

M^x  goes  into  such  a  fit  of  laughter  that  choking 
follows,  and  he  has  to  be  patted  on  the  back. 
ANATOL  does  the  friendly  office,  somewhat 
distractedly. 

72 


A    FAREWELL    SUPPER 

MiMi  \_very  haughty  indeed^.  There's  nothing  to 
laugh  at,  Max. 

MAX.  Oh  ...  oh  .  .  .  oh ! 

ANATOL.  Never  mind  him.  Now  .  .  .  will  you  please 
tell  me  .  .  .  ? 

MIMI.  lam  telling  you.  I'm  in  love  with  some- 
body else  and  I'm  telHng  you  straight  out  Hke  you 
told  me. 

ANATOL.  Yes,  but  damn  it .  .  .  who.'* 

MIMI.  Now,  my  dear  .  .  .  don't  lose  your  temper. 

ANATOL.  I  want  to  know. 

MIMI.  Ring  the  bell.  Max,  I'm  so  hungry. 
MAX  recovering,  does  so. 

ANATOL.  Hungry  ...  at  such  a  moment !  Hungry ! 

MAX  \^passing  hack  to  his  chair,  says  in  anatol's 
ear'] .  Ah  .  .  .  but  it'll  be  the  first  supper  she's  had 
to-night. 

The  waiter  arrives,  anatol  rends  hi/m  savagely. 

ANATOL.  And  what  do  you  want.'' 

WAITER  [perfectly  polite].  You  rang,  sir.f* 

MAX.  Bring  the  next  thing. 

While  the  plates  are  cleared  anatol  fumes,  hut 
MIMI  maizes  casual  conversation. 

MIMI.  Berthe  Hoflich  is  going  to  Russia  .  . .  it's 
settled. 

MAX.  Letting  her  go  without  any  fuss.? 

MIMI.   Oh  .  .  .   not  more  than  a  bit. 

ANATOL.  Where's  the  wine.''  Are  you  asleep  to- 
night ? 

WAITER.  Beg  pardon,  sir .  .  .  the  wine  \he  points 
it  out  under  anatol's  nose], 

73 


ANATOL 

ANATOL.  No,  no  .  .  .  the  champagne. 

The  waiter  goes  out  for  that  and  for  the  next 
course.     As  the  door  shuts  on  him  .  .  . 
ANATOL.   Now  then  .  .  .  will  you  please  explain,? 
MiMi.  Never  take  a  man  at  his  word !     How  many 
times  have  you  told  me  .  .  .  when  we  feel  it's  coming 
to  an  end,  say  so  and  end  it  calmly  and  quietly.? 

ANATOL    [ivith    less    and    less    'pretence    of    self- 
controlli .  For  the  last  time  . .  . 
MIMI.  He  calls  this  quietly ! 

ANATOL.  My  dear  girl  .  .  .  doesn't  it  occur  to  you 
that  I  have  some  right  to  know  who  .  .  .  ? 

MIMI  hasn^t  let  her  appetite  be  disturbed;  and  at 
this  moment  she  is  relishing  the  mine,  her 
eyes  closed. 
MIMI.  Ah ! 

ANATOL.  Oh,  drink  it  up  .  . .  drink  it  up ! 
MIMI.  Where's   the  hurry.? 

ANATOL  [^reallij  rather  rudely^.  You  generally  get 
it  down  quick  enough. 

MIMI  [still  sipping'\.  Ah  .  .  .  but  it's  good-bye  to 
claret,  too,  Anatol.  It  may  be  for  years,  it  may  be 
for  ever. 

ANATOL  \^puzzled^.  Oh  .  .  .  why? 
MIMI  [with  fine  resignation^.  No  more  claret  for 
,  jne  ...  no  more  03'sters  ...  no  more  champagne !  [A  i 
this  moment  the  waiter  begins  to  hand  the  next  course.] 
And  no  more  filets  aux  trufFes !     All  done  with  now. 
MAX.  Oh  .  .  .   what    a    sentimental   tummy !      Havci 
some  ?  ' 

MIMI  [with  gusto].  I  will. 
74 


A    FAREWELL    SUPPER 

MAX.  You've  no  appetite,  Anatol. 

The  waiter  having  served  them  disappears  once 
more,  and  once  more  anatol  plunges  into 
trouble. 

ANATOL.  Well,  now  .  .  .  who's  the  lucky  fellow  ? 

MiMi  [^serene  and  enjoying  her  filet  aux  truffes^ .  If 
I  told  you  you  wouldn't  be  any  the  wiser. 

ANATOL.  But  what  sort  of  a  chap.''  How  did  you 
come  across  him.?     What  does  he  look  like.'' 

MIMI  l^seraphic^.  He's  a  perfect  picture  of  a  man. 

ANATOL.  Oh,  that's  enough,  of  course. 

MIMI.  It's  got  to  be.  [^She  re-starts  her  chant  of 
self-sacrifice.^     No  more  oysters  .  .  .  ! 

ANATOL.  Yes  .  .  .  you  said  that. 

MIMI.  No  more  champagne! 

ANATOL.  Damn  it .  .  .  is  that  his  only  excuse  for 
existence  .  .  .  not  being  able  to  stand  you  oysters  and 
champagne .'' 

MAX.  He  couldn't  live  by  that. 

MIMI.  What's  the  odds  as  long  as  I  love  him !  I'm 
going  to  try  throwing  myself  away  for  once  .  .  .  I've 
never  felt  like  this  about  any  one  before. 

MAX  [mith  a  twinkle^.  Anatol  could  have  given 
you  an  eighteenpenny  supper,  you  know. 

ANATOL.  Is  he  a  clerk.''  Is  he  a  chimney-sweep? 
Is  he  a  candlestick-maker.'' 

MIMI.  Don't  you  insult  him. 

MAX.  Tell  us. 

MIMI.  He's  an  Artist. 

ANATOL.   Music-hall  artist  ? 

MIMI  [with  dignity'\.  He's  a  fellow-artist  of  mine. 
75 


i-L. 


ANATOL 

ANATOL.  Oh  ...  an  old  friend?  You've  been 
seeing  a  lot  of  him?  Now  then  .  .  .  how  long  have 
you  been  deceiving  me? 

MiMi.  Should  I  be  telling  you  if  I  had?  I'm 
taking  you  at  your  word  and  speaking  out  before  it's 
too  late. 

ANATOL.  How  long  have  you  been  In  love  with  him? 
You've  been  thinking  things  .  .  .  haven't  you? 

MIMI.  Well ...  I  couldn't  help  that. 

ANATOL  \_his  temper  rising  fast^.  Oh! 

MAX.  Anatol! 

ANATOii.  Do  I  know  the  fellow? 

MIMI.  I  don't  suppose  you've  ever  noticed  him. 
He's  in  the  chorus.     He'll  come  to  the  front. 

ANATOL.  When  did  this  affair  start? 

MIMI.  To-night. 

ANATOL.  That's  not  true. 

MIMI.  It  is.     To-night  I  knew  it  was  my  fate. 

ANATOL.  Your  fate !     Max  .  .  .  her  fate ! 

MIMI.  Yes  ...my  fate.     Why  not  ? 

ANATOL.  Now ...  I  want  the  whole  story.  I've  a 
right  to  it.  You  still  belong  to  me,  remember. 
How  long  has  this  been  going  on  .  .  .  how  did  it 
begin  ?     When  had  he  the  impudence  .  .  .  ? 

MAX.  Yes  ...  I  think  you  ought  to  tell  us  that. 

MIMI  [impatient  for  the  first  time^.  Oh  .  .  .  this  is 
all  the  thanks  I  get  for  doing  the  straight  thing. 
Suppose  I'd  gone  like  Florrie  with  von  Glehn.  He 
hasn't  found  out  yet  about  her  and  Hubert. 

ANATOL.    He   will. 

MIMI.  Well,  he  may.  And  then  again  he  mayn't. 
76 


A    FAREWELL    SUPPER  ( 

But  you  wouldn't  have.     I  know  a  thing  or  two  more 
than  you  do. 

For  proper  emphasis  she  pours  out  another  glass  y^S^  ^ 
of  wme. 
ANATOi..  Haven't  you  had  enough? 
MiMi.  What.  .  .  when  it's  the  last  I  shall  get.'' 
MAX  [with  a  nod^.  For  a  week  or  so. 
MIMI    [with    a    srJnA].  Don't    you   think    it.      I'm 
going  to  stick  to  Carl.     I  love  him  for  himself  alone. 
H  e  won't  badger  and  bully  me,  the  dear ! 

ANATOL,.  You  and  he  have  been  carrying  on  under 
my  nose  for  .  .  .  how  long  ^     To-night  indeed ! 
MIMI.  Don't  believe  it  if  you  don't  want  to. 
MAX.  Mimi .  .  .  tell  the  truth.    You  two  won't  part 
friends  unless  you  do. 

ANATOL,  {recovering  some  complacency^.  And  then 
I've  a  bit  of  news  for  you. 

MIMI.  Well ...  it  began   like  this  .  .  . 

Once  more  the  waiter,  with  the  champagne  this 
time.     MIMI  stops  very  discreetly. 
ANATOL.  Oh,  never  mind  him. 

So  she  gets  ahead,  hut  in  whispers,  till  the  intruder 
shall  have  departed,  which  he  does  very  soon. 
MIMI.  A  fortnight  ago  he  gave  me  a  rose.     Oh,  so 
shy  he  was !    I  laughed  ...  I  couldn't  help  it. 
ANATOii.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me? 
MIMI.  Start  telling  you  those  sort  of  things !     I 
should  never  have  done. 
ANATOL.   Well? 

MIMI.  And  he  hung  round  at  rehearsals.     It  made 
me  cross  at  first .  .  .  and  then  it  didn't. 

77 


ANATOL 

ANATOL  [viciortshj^.  No,  I'm  sure  it  didn't. 
MiMi.  Then  we  began  to   have  little  chats.     And 
then  I  began  to  take  such  a  fancy  to  him. 
ANATOL.  What  did  you  chat  about? 

MIMI  tries  the  champagne  now. 
MIMI.  Oh .  .  .  things.       He     got     expelled     from 
school.     Then  he  went  into  business,  and  that  wasn't 
any  good.     Then  he  thought  perhaps  he  could  act. 
ANATOL.  And  never  a  word  to  me ! 
MIMI.  And  then  we  found  out  we  used  to  live  close 
to  each  other  as  children.     Just  fancy ! 
ANATOL.  Most  touching! 
MIMI   [simplp]^.  Wasn't  it.'' 
ANATOL.   Well? 

The  champagne  (one  fears  it  is)  has  an  instant 

effect.      She   becomes   a   little   vague    and 

distant. 

MIMI.  That's  all.   It's  my  fate.   You  can't  struggle 

against  your  fate,  can  you  ?     Can't .  .  .   struggle  .  .  . 

against .  .  . 

She  stops  suddenly,    anatol  waits  for  a  minute, 
then .  .  . 
ANATOL.  But  I've  not  been  told  what  happened  to- 
night. 

MIMI.  What  happened  .  •  . , 

Her  eyes  close. 
MAX  [with  fine  effect^.  Hush  .  .  .  she  sleeps.     , 
ANATOL.  Well,  wake  her  up.    Take  that  wine  away 
from  her.     I  want  to  know  what  happened  to-night. 
Mimi .  .  .  Mimi ! 

She  wakes  up,  refreshed  apparently. 
78 


A  FAREWELL  SUPPER 

MiMi.  To-night?     He  told  me  he  loved  me. 

ANATOL.  What  did  you  say? 

MIMI.  I  said  I  was  awfully  glad.  And  I  mustn't 
play  the  silly  fool  with  him,  must  I?  So  it's  good- 
bye to  you. 

ANATOL.  It's  him  you're  considering,  not  me. 

MIMI  [^with  friendly  candour^ .  I  don't  think  I  ever 
really  liked  you,  Anatol. 

ANATOL.  Thank  you.  I'm  happy  to  say  that 
leaves  me  cold. 

MIMI.  Don't  be  nasty. 

ANATOL.  Would  you  be  surprised  to  hear  that  I 
hope  to  get  on  very  well  without  you  for  the 
future  ? 

MIMI.  Really?* 

ANATOL  throws  Ms  belated  bomb. 

ANATOL.  I  am  in  love,  too. 

And  it  is  received  by  mimi  with  the  indifference 
of  scepticism. 

mimi.  Think  of  that ! 

ANATOL.  And  have  been  for  some  time.  Ask 
Max.     I  was  telling  him  when  you  came  in. 

She  smiles  at  this  in  the  most  irritating  way. 

mimi.  Yes  .  .  .  I'm  sure  you  were. 

ANATOL  [^piling  it  up^.  She's  younger  and  rather 
prettier  than  you. 

mimi.  I'm  sure  she  Is. 

ANATOL.  And  I'd  throw  six  hundred  and  seventy 
of  your  sort  into  the  sea  for  her.  \^But  mimi,  not  in 
the  least  impressed  or  distressed,  laughs  loud.^  You 
needn't  laugh.    Ask  Max. 

79 


ANATOL 

MiMi.  If  I  were  you  I  should  have  invented  all 
that  a  little  earlier. 

ANATOL  [^aghast^.  But  it's  true.  I  haven't  cared 
that  much  about  you  since  .  .  .  !  You've  been  boring 
me  till  I  could  only  stay  in  the  room  with  you  by 
sitting  and  thinking  of  her.  I've  had  to  shut  my 
eyes  tight  and  think  it  was  her  I  was  kissing. 

MIMI  [as  comfortable  as  ever^.  Ditto  to  that,  my 
dear. 

ANATOL  takes  a  nasty  turn. 
ANATOL.  Well . .  .  that's    not   all.      Say    ditto    to 
this  if  you  can. 

She  notices  the  change  in  his  tone,  puts  down  her 
wine-glass,  and  looks  squarely  at  him. 
MIMI.  To  what? 

ANATOL.  I   could  havc   told  you  all  you've  been 
telling   me   months    ago.      And   weeks    ago    I    could 
have  told  you  a  good  deal  more. 
MIMI.  D'you  mean  .  .  .  ? 

ANATOL.  Yes,  I  do.  I  have  behaved  very  badly  to 
you  .  . .  dear  Mimi. 

MIMI  gets  up  outraged. 
MIMI.  Oh  .  .  .  you  cad ! 

ANATOL  \_grateful  for  the  abuse^.  And  only  just 
in  time,  too  ...  it  seems !  You  wanted  to  get  there 
first,  did  you.f*  Well .  .  .  thank  God,  I  have  no 
illusions ! 

But  MIMI  has  gone  to  collect  her  things:  her  hat, 
her  cloak.     And  she  puts  them  on,  too,  not 
waiting  a  moment. 
MIMI.  Oh ...  it  only  shows ! 
80 


A    FAREWELL    SUPPER 

ANATOL.  Doesn't  it!     Shows  what? 
MiMi.  What  a  brute  a  man  can  be! 
ANATOL.  A  brute  .  .  .  am  I? 

MIMI.  Yes,  a  brute  ...  a  tactless  brute.  \_For  a 
moment  she  gives  him  undivided  attention.^  After 
all .  .  .  I  never  told  jou  that. 

Abysses  open! 
ANATOL.   What ! 
MAX,  Oh,  never  mind! 

ANATOL.  Never  told  me  what.''  That  you  and 
he... 

MIMI  {with  most  righteous  indignation^.  And  I 
never  would  have  told  it  you.  Only  a  man  could  be 
so  . .  .  unpleasant ! 

Heaven  knows  what  might  happen,  anatol  so 
twitches  with  rage  and  amazement.     But 
the  timely  calm  waiter  saves  the  situation 
with  yet  another  course. 
WAITER.  I  beg  pardon. 

ANATOL.  Oh,  go  to  ...  !  \^He  swallows  the  word, 
and  recovers  a  little.^ 

MIMI.  Ices!  • 

And,  pleased  as  a  child,  she  goes  back  to  her 

chair   to   begin  on  hers,     anatol,   in  his 

turn,  is  deeply  shocked. 

anatol.  Can  you  eat  ices  at  a  moment  like  this.'' 

MAX  [starting  on  his  too^.  Yes,  of  course  she  can. 

It's  good-bye  to  them  for  ever. 

MIMI  [between  the  spoonfuls^.  No  more  ices  .  .  . 
no  more  claret  ...  no  more  champagne  ...  no  more 
oysters  !     [Then,  as  she  gets  up  to  go.^     And  thank 

81 


ANATOL 

goodness  ...  no  more  Anatol,     [But  on  her  way  to 

the  door  she  notices  on  the  sideboard  the  cigars.    She 

helps   herself  to   a  handful.      Then   turns   with   the 

sweetest  of  smiles.'\    Not  for  me.   They're  for  him! 

She  departs. 

MAX.  I  said  it'd  go  off  all  right. 

ANATOL  is  speechless. 


8S 


VI 
DYING   PANGS 


DYING   PANGS 


One  spring  afternoon  it  is  growing  dusk  in  anatol's 
room,  tJiough  through  the  open  window  the 
broad  expanse  of  sky  still  shines  clear  and  blue. 
ANATOL  and  MAX  come  in  from  a  walk. 

MAX.  I  didn't  mean  to  come  up  with  you,i 

ANATOL.  But  don't  go. 

MAX.  I  shall  be  in  the  way. 

ANATOL.  I'm  not  sure  she'll  come.  Three  times 
out  of  four  she  won't. 

MAX.  I  couldn't  stand  that. 

ANATOL.  She  has  excellent  excuses.  I  dare  say 
they're  sometimes  true. 

MAX.  Three  times  out  of  four. 

ANATOL.  Hardly  that!  Max,  never,  never  be  the 
lover  of  a  married  woman.     There's  nothing  deadlier. 

MAX.  Except  being  her  husband. 

ANATOL.  I've  been  in  this  mess  .  .  .  how  long.'' 
Two  years?  More.  It  was  two  years  last  Easter 
that .  .  . 

MAX.  What's  gone  wrong.? 

ANATOL,  who  has  taken  off  neither  coat  nor  hat, 
who  still  carries  his  stick  in  his  hand,  flings 
himself  into  a  chair  by  the  window. 
85 


ANATOL 

ANATOL.  I'm  weary  of  it.  I  wish  .  .  .  oh,  I  don't 
know  what  I  wish. 

MAX.  Go  abroad  for  a  bit. 

ANATOL,  What's  the  good? 

MAX.  Wouldn't  that  bring  it  to  an  end  quicker? 

ANATOL.  It  might. 

MAX.  I've  seen  you  through  this  sort  of  thing 
before.  And  the  last  time,  how  long  did  it  take 
you  to  make  up  your  mind  to  have  done  with  that 
silly  girl  who  had  never  been  worth  worrying  about 
at  all? 

ANATOL.  D'you  think  things  are  dead  between  us 
now? 

MAX.  That  wouldn't  matter  .  .  .  death  doesn't 
hurt.     But  dying  pangs  do. 

ANATOL.  Job's  comforter!  You're  quite  right 
though. 

MAX.  Talk  it  over  if  you  like  .  .  .  that  helps  some- 
times. Not  to  bother  over  the  whys  and  wherefores, 
but  just  to  diagnose  the  case. 

ANATOL.  You'd  like  a  cheerful  ten  minutes,  would 
you? 

MAX.  Well ...  if  you  knew  what  a  face  you've 
been  carrying  round  and  round  the  park  with  you 
this  afternoon. 

ANATOL.  She  said  she'd  be  there. 

MAX.  You  weren't  sorry  she  wasn't.  You  couldn't 
have  looked  as  glad  to  see  her  as  you  did  a  couple 
of  years  ago. 

ANATOL  [^jumping  up^.  It's  true.  But  why  .  .  . 
why?      Have    I    got    to    go    through    it    again .  .  . 

86 


DYING    PANGS 

this  cooling  .  .  .  cooling  .  .  .  growing  cold?  It's  a 
perfect  nightmare. 

MAX.  Run  away  then ...  go  abroad.  Or  else 
make  up  your  mind  to  tell  her  the  truth. 

ANATOL.  What  Is  the  truth? 

MAX.  That  you're  tired  of  her. 

ANATOL.  Tell  a  woman  that  sort  of  truth  only 
because  you're  weary  of  telling  lies !  A  pleasant 
job. 

MAX.  No  doubt  you'd  both  of  you  do  anything 
rather  than  face  the  brutal  facts.     But  why? 

ANATOL.  Because  we  still  don't  thoroughly  believe 
in  the  brutal  facts  . . .  that's  why.  Even  in  this  dull, 
dying  autumn  of  our  passion,  there  come  to  us 
days  of  spring .  .  .  brighter  than  any  we've  ever 
known.  You  never  so  much  want  to  be  happy 
with  a  woman  as  when  you  know  that  you're  ceasing 
to  care  for  her.  And  when  the  happy  moments 
come,  we  don't  look  too  closely  at  them  either.  We 
only  feel  so  ashamed  ...  we  mutely  apologise  for 
having  doubted  ourselves  and  ea  h  other.  Love's 
like  a  candle  flame ...  it  flickers  highest  when  it's 
going  out. 

MAX.  And  the  end's  In  sight  often  much  sooner 
than  we  think.  You  can  date  the  death  of  some 
love  aff*airs  from  the  very  first  kiss.  But  a  man 
may  be  on  his  deathbed  and  swear  he's  never  better. 

ANATOL.  Not  I,  worse  luck.  In  love  aff'airs,  my 
friend,  I  have  always  been  a  valetudinarian.  Very 
likely  I  knew  that  I  wasn't  so  ill  as  I  thought  .  .  . 
I  felt  so  much  the  worse  for  that.     I've  sometimes 

87 


ANATOL 

fancied  I  have  a  sort  of  evil  eye .  .  .  turned  in- 
wards ...   to  wither  my  own  happiness. 

MAX.  A  most  rare  and  distinguished  deformity. 

ANATOL.  You're  welcome  to  it  for  me.  Lord  .  .  . 
how  I've  envied  lucky,  careless  devils,  who  can  be 
supremely  happy  in  the  passing  moment.  I've  never 
valued  a  thing  when  I  had  it. 

MAX.  Often  they  don't  know  they're  happy. 

ANATOL.  But  they  needn't  feel  guilty  afterwards. 

MAX.  Guilty.-^ 

ANATOL.  She  and  I  knew  well  enough,  didn't  we, 
that  though  we  might  swear  to  love  each  other  till 
death  and  after,  yet  the  end  of  it  all  was  never  so 
very  far  off?  Then  why  didn't  we  make  the  most 
of  our  time?  For  we  never  did.  We're  guilty  of 
lost  opportunity. 

MAX.  Oh,  my  dear  Anatol .  .  .  these  dragged-out 
affairs  are  very  bad  for  you.  You're  too  quick-witted 
for  them. 

ANATOL.   Am  I? 

MAX.  Haunted  by  the  past  and  afraid  of  the 
future  .  .  .  why,  your  one  chance  of  happiness  is  to 
keep  the  present,  at  least,  clear  and  clean  and  forget- 
ful.    Be  a  little  stupid  about  it  if  you  must. 

ANATOL.  Yes  .  .  .  yes. 

MAX.  But  you  jumble  past,  present,  and  future  to- 
gether till  I  don't  think  you  know  which  you're 
living  in.  All  you  think  of  to-day  is  your  yesterday's 
remorse  for  the  sins  that  you  mean  to  commit 
to-morrow. 

ANATOL.  And  that's  not  half  the  nonsense  it  sounds, 
88 


DYING    PANGS 

MAX.  Thank  you.  But  we  must  all  talk  our  share 
of  platitudes  too  ...  so  here  goes  for  mine.  Anatol, 
pull  yourself  together  ...  be  a  man. 

ANATOL.  Max  .  .  .  you  can't  keep  a  straight  face 
as  you  say  it.  Besides,  I  don't  think  I  want  to  pull 
myself  together.  What  a  lot  one  loses  by  being  a 
Man !  There  are  a  dozen  ways  of  being  an  interest- 
ing invalid,  and  a  fellow  can  choose  his  own.  But 
there's  only  one  way  of  being  in  rude  health .  .  .  and 
that's  such  a  dull  one.     No,  thanks. 

MAX.  Vanity ! 

ANATOL,.  Now  for  a  platitude  about  vanity. 

MAX.  No.  My  only  concern  is  that  you  won't  go 
abroad. 

ANATOL.  I  may.  But  it  must  be  at  a  moment's 
notice.  I  hate  planning  things.  I  particularly  hate 
packing,  and  looking  up  trains,  and  ordering  a  cab, 
and  .  .  . 

MAX.  I'll  do  all  that  for  you. 

Suddenly,   as  if  in  response  to  some  instinct, 
ANATOL  turns  to  the  window  and  looks  out. 

MAX.  What  is  it.f* 

ANATOL.  Nothing. 

MAX.  I  beg  your  pardon.     I  forgot.     I'm  off. 

ANATOL.  Max  ...  at  this  moment  I  feel  more  in 
love  with  her  than  ever. 

MAX.  You  probably  are  more  in  love  with  her 
than  ever  ...   at  this  moment. 

ANATOL.  Then  don't   order  the  cab. 

MAX.  But  the  boat-train  don't  leave  for  an  hour 
and  a  half.     I  could  send  your  luggage  on  after. 

89 


ANATOL 

ANATOL.  Thank  you  so  much. 
MAX.  Now  I  must  make  a  good  exit . . .  with  an 
epigram. 

ANATOL.  Please. 
MAX.  Woman  is  a  riddle .  . . 
ANATOL.  Oh,  really! 

MAX.  Wait,    that's    only    half   of   it.      Woman   is 
a  riddle  .  .  .   says  a  man.     What  a  riddle  would  Man 
be  for  women  ...  if  they'd  only  brains  enough  to 
want  to  guess  it. 
ANATOL.  Bravo. 

MAX  bows  to  his  applause  and  departs,  anatol 
is  more  restless  than  ever.  He  paces  the 
room.  He  goes  to  the  window,  where  he  can 
now  hear  some  violinist  practising  in  the 
room  above.  He  lights  a  cigarette  and  sits 
down  to  wait  as  patiently  as  may  be.  But 
he  hears  a  sound  in  the  hall.  He  jumps  up 
and  goes  to  the  door  as  it  opens  to  admit 
ELBA.  She  comes  in  a  little  furtively.  She 
is  dressed  as  a  smart  rich  woman  should  be, 
but  she  is  rather  heavily  veiled. 
ANATOL.  At  last ! 
ELSA.  Yes  .  .  .  I'm  late. 

He  quite  tenderly  puts  up  the  veil  to  kiss  her. 
After  that  she  takes  it  off,  her  hat  too. 
ELSA.  I  couldn't  come  before. 

ANATOL.  You  might  have  let  me  know.     Waiting 
does  get  on  one's  nerves.     But  you  can  stop  a  bit. 
ELSA.  Not  long,  darling.   You  see,  my  husband  .  .  . 
He  breaks  away  from  her  almost  rudely. 
90 


DYING    PANGS 

ELSA.  My  dear  .  .  .  can  I  help  that? 

ANATOL.  No,  you  Can't.  There  it  is  .  .  .  we  may  as 
well  face  it.     Come  to  me. 

He  is  by  the  window  and  tries  to  draw  her  to 
him,  but  she  hangs  back. 

ELSA.  No,  no  .  .  .  some  one  might  see  me. 

ANATOL.  It's  too  dark  .  .  .  and  the  curtain  hides  us. 
She  slips  into  his  arms. 

ANATOL.  I  wish  you  hadn't  to  go  so  soon.  I've 
not  seen  you  for  two  days.  Then  you  only  stayed 
ten  minutes. 

ELSA.  Do  you  love  me  so.'' 

ANATOL.  Do  I  not.''  What  aren't  you  to  me?  If 
I  could  have  you  here  always  .  .  . 

ELSA.  I'm  glad. 

ANATOL.  Sit  by  me.  \_He  draws  her  close  beside 
him.^  Where's  your  hand?  \^He  holds  it  and  kisses 
if.]  That's  the  old  man  upstairs  playing.  Plays 
well,  doesn't  he? 

Thet/  sit  together  there  in  the  twilight,  listening. 

ELSA.  Dear  one ! 

ANATOL.  Think  if  we  were  in  Italy  now ...  in 
Venice ! 

ELSA.  I've  not  been  to  Venice  since  I  was  there  for 
my  honeymoon. 

ANATOL  shrivels. 

ANATOL.  Need  you  have  said  that? 

ELSA  [with  a  gush  of  remorse^ .  Darling  .  .  .  but 
I've  never  loved  any  one  but  you.  No  .  .  .  not .  .  . 
not  my  husband. 

ANATOL  [m  some  agony  J.  Please  do  try  and  forget 
91 


ANATOL 

that  you're  married .  .  .  just  for  thirty  seconds. 
Can't  you  obliterate  everything  for  a  moment  but 
ourselves  ? 

She  apparently  does,  and  there  is  silence.  Then  a 
clock  strikes  and  elsa  looks  round  quickly. 
ELS  A.  What's  that? 

ANATOL.  Elsa  .  .  .  never  mind.     Forget  everything 
but  me. 

ELSA  \_turning  back  to  him  all  the  more  tenderly'\. 
Haven't  I  forgotten  everything  but  you  .  .  .   for  you  ? 
ANATOL.  Oh  .  .  .  my  dear  .  .  .  my  dear ! 

He  kisses  her  hand  and  there  is  silence  again. 
Then  the  lady  says,  very  tentatively,  almost 
tremulously  .  .  . 
ELSA.  Anatol .  .  . 
ANATOL.  Yes,  darling. 

She  makes  a  half  serious  little  face  at  him  as  a 
sign  that  she  really  must  be  off.    He  won't 
understand. 
ANATOL.  What  is  it.'' 
ELSA.  I  simply  must  go. 

ANATOL.    Must.'* 
ELSA.    Must. 

He  gets  up  .  .  .  goes  right  away  from  her. 
ANATOL.  Very  well. 
ELSA.  Oh  .  .  .  you  are  difficult. 
ANATOL.  Difficult !     I  sometimes  think  you  want 
to  drive  me  mad. 

ELSA.  And  this  is  the  thanks  I  get! 
ANATOL.  Thanks !     What  do  you  expect  thanks 
92 


DYING    PANGS 

for?  Don't  I  give  you  as  much  love  as  I  get?  Is 
it  worth  less  to  you  than  yours  is  to  me?  Why 
thanks  ? 

ELSA.  Don't  you  owe  me  just  a  little  gratitude 
for  the  sacrifice  I've  made  for  you? 

ANATOL.  I  don't  want  sacrifices.  If  it  was  a 
sacrifice  .  .  .  then  you  didn't  love  me. 

ELSA.  Not  love  you!  I'm  an  unfaithful  wife  for 
your  sake .  .  .  and  you  say  I  don't  love  you. 

ANATOL.  I  didn't  say  so,  Elsa. 

ELSA.  Oh  .  .  .  when  I've  done .  .  .  what  I've  done. 

ANATOL.  What  you've  done!  I'll  tell  you  all  that 
you've  done.  Seven  years  back  you  were  a  pretty 
gawky  girl,  weren't  you?  Your  people  got  you 
married .  .  .  because  that's  the  thing  to  do  with 
pretty  gawky  girls.  Then  you  went  a  honeymoon  in 
Venice  .  .  .  you  liked  that  well  enough. 

ELSA  [^indignantly'].  I  didn't. 

ANATOL.  Oh,  yes,  you  did !  You  were  in  love .  .  . 
more  or  less. 

ELSA.  I  wasn't. 

ANATOL.  He  was,  then.  I'm  sure  he  petted  you 
nicely  .  .  .  anyhow,  you  were  his  little  wife.  Then 
back  to  Vienna  .  .  .  and  after  a  bit  to  boredom.  Be- 
cause you'd  grown  a  pretty  woman  by  now  .  .  .  and, 
really,  he's  a  precious  fool.  So  you  learned  to  flirt 
.  .  .  harmlessly  enough,  no  doubt !  You  tell  me  I'm 
the  only  man  you've  ever  really  loved.  I  can't 
prove  it .  .  .  but  let's  say  that's  so.  It  flatters  me  to 
believe  it. 

ELSA.  You  call  me  a  flirt. 
93 


ANATOL 

ANATOii.  I  do.  Did  you  never  indulge  in  that 
sensual  hypocrisy? 

ELSA.  Oh  .  .  .  you're  unjust! 

ANATOL.  Am  I.''  Then  real  temptation  came.  You 
played  with  it .  .  .  you  were  longing  for  a  romance. 
For  you  grew  prettier  than  ever  .  .  .  and  your  hus- 
band more  of  a  fool.  He  was  getting  fat  too  .  .  . 
and  ugly.  So  at  last  your  conscience  yielded.  You 
coolly  looked  round  for  a  lover,  and  chanced  to  hit 
upon  me. 

ELSA.  Chanced  to  hit  upon  .  .  . 

ANATOL.  Yes  ...  if  it  hadn't  been  me  it  would  have 
been  the  next  man.  You  thought  you  were  unhappily 
married  ...  or  at  least  not  happily  married  enough. 
You  wanted  to  be .  .  .  one  calls  it  loved.  Of 
course,  it  was  just  a  flirtation  between  us  at  first.  .  . 
we  skated  quite  skilfully  over  thin  ice.  Till  one  fine 
day  .  .  .  what  was  it .  .  .  ?  one  of  your  friends  looking 
happier  than  usual  .  .  .  the  sight  of  some  merry  little 
baggage  in  a  box  at  the  theatre.  Well,  and  why 
shouldn't  I?  .  .  .  said  you.  And  you  took  the  plunge. 
Leaving  out  fine  phrases  .  .  .  that's  the  story  of  this 
little  adventure. 

She  does  not  look  at  him,  but  m  her  voice  is 
shame  and  reproach. 

ELSA.  Oh  .  .  .  Anatol,  Anatol ! 

ANATOL.   Well.'' 

ELSA.  You  don't  mean  it. 

ANATOL.     I   do. 

ELSA.  That's  what  you  think  of  me. 
ANATOL.  I'm  afraid  so. 
94 


DYING    PANGS 

ELSA.  Then  I'd  better  go. 
ANATOL.  I'm  not  keeping  you. 

And  she  does  go  .  .  .  quite  as  far  as  the  door. 
But  there  she  lingers. 
ELSA.  You  want  me  to. 

ANATOL.  My  dear !  Two  minutes  ago  it  was  you 
that  were  in  such  a  hurry. 

ELSA  looks  up  in  some  relief. 
ELSA.  Darling .  .  .  you    know    I    can't    help    that. 
My  hush  .  .  . 

He  suddenly  flashes  round  on  her, 

ANATOL.    Elsa. 

ELSA.  Yes. 

ANATOL.  You  do  lovc  me?     Say  so. 

ELSA  l^tears  in  her  eyes^.  Do  I?  Good  heavens! .  .  . 
what  better  proofs  can  I  give.? 

ANATOL.  Shall  I  tell  you.? 

ELSA.  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart. 

ANATOL.  Then  don't  go.  Don't  go  back  home. 
Come  away  somewhere  with  me.  Let  me  have  you 
all  to  myself. 

ELSA.  Anatol! 

ANATOL.  Isn't  that  obviously  the  thing  to  do? 
How  can  you  go  back  to  him  .  .  .  loving  me  with  all 
your  heart?  How  could  I  ever  have  let  you?  We've 
been  taking  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course.  But  don't 
you  see  that  it  can't  go  on  .  .  .  it's  impossible.  Elsa, 
dear,  come  away  with  me  .  .  .  you  must.  We'll  go 
wherever  you  like.  To  Sicily  ?  Very  well .  .  .  further 
then.     I'll  go  as  far  as  you  like,  Elsa ! 

ELSA  [blankly'\.  My  dear  Anatol! 
95 


ANATOL 

ANATOL.  No  one  to  take  you  from  me  ever  again. 
Far  away,  dear ...  we  two  . .  .  belonging  to  each 
other. 

ELSA.  Go  right  away? 

ANATOL.  Yes  .  .  .  anywhere. 

ELSA.  But .  .  .  my  dear  Anatol . . . 

ANATOL.   Well? 

ELSA  [with  a  sort  of  puzzled  blandness'\ .  Where's 
the  need? 

ANATOL.  Where's  the  .  . .  ! 

ELSA.  Why  go  away .  .  .  when  we  can  see  each 
other  here  almost  as  often  as  we  want? 

ANATOL  talces  a  long  look  at  her  and  then  smiles 
queerly. 

ANATOL.  Yes  . .  .  almost.  True  . . .  there  is  no 
need. 

ELSA.  You  didn't  mean  it,  did  you? 

ANATOL.    Did  I? 

He  turns  away  from  her.  She  follows  him  prettily. 
ELSA.  Are  you  still  angry? 

The  clock  chimes  again.     He  turns  hack  with 
the  utmost  politeness. 
ANATOL.  I'm  sure  you  must  go. 
ELSA  [a  little  flustered^.  Oh  dear !.  .  .  I  didn't  know 
it  was  SO  late.     Till  to-morrow.     I  can  come  at  six. 
He  helps  her  with  her  things. 
ANATOL.  Please  do. 
ELSA.  Not  going  to  kiss  me? 
ANATOL.  Of  course! 

He  kisses  her. 
96 


DYING    PANGS 

ELSA  \^encouragmgly'\.  Things'!!  loolc  brigliter  to- 
morrow. 

ANATOL.  Good-bye. 

He  takes  her  to  the  door,  where  she  stops  and 
looks  up,  all  sweetness  and  charm. 
ELSA.  Kiss  me  again. 

He  looks  at  her  hard  for  a  minute,  then  very 

deliberately  does  so,   and  she   slips  away. 

He  turns  hack  and  savagely  exclaims .  .  . 

ANATOL.  Slie  asl^ed  for  that  Iciss.     And  it  malces 

her    another    cheap    woman    at    last .  .  .       [Then    to 

himself  in  the  glass~\   And  you're  a  fool ...  a  fool! 


97 


VII 
THE    WEDDING   MORNING 


THE   WEDDING   MORNING 


Note  . . .  In  Vienna,  of  course,  a  man's  clothes  for  a 
•wedding  are  what  we  should  call  evening  dress. 
It  also  appears  that  on  such  occasions,  to  every 
bridesmaid  there  is  a  groomsman,  whose  business 
it  is  to  provide  her  with  a  bouquet. 

It  is  a  brilliant  winter  morning;  the  lately  risen  sun 
shines  straight  into  anatol's  room,  anatoi. 
stands  on  the  hither  side  of  his  bedroom  door, 
which  is  a  little  open.  He  is  listening.  After  a 
moment  he  closes  the  door  very  softly  and  comes 
back  into  the  room.  He  looJcs  nervous  and  rather 
puzzled.  He  sits  down  on  not  the  most  comfort- 
able chair  with  a  fretful  sigh.  Then  he  gets  up 
to  ring  the  bell.  Then  he  sits  down  again.  His 
costume  is  the  strangest  mixture  of  early  morn- 
ing and  overnight  that  ever  was:  a  dressing 
jacket  and  dress  trousers,  slippers,  and  a  scarf 
round  the  neck;  but  he  looks  bathed  and  shaved, 
and  his  hair  is  brushed,  franz,  his  man,  an- 
swers the  bell,  and,  not  seeing  him,  is  going  into 
the  bedroom,  anatol  jumps  up  and  stops  him, 
more  by  gestures  than  with  his  voice,  which  he 
hardly  raises  above  a  whisper. 
101 


ANATOL 

ANATOL.  Here,  where  are  you  going?  I  didn't 
see  you. 

FRANZ.  Did  you  ring,  sir.? 

ANATOL.  Yes  .  .  .  bring  some  breakfast. 

FRANZ.  Very  good,  sir. 

And  he  is  going  for  it. 
ANATOL.  Quietly,  you  idiot.  Don't  make  such  a 
noise,  [franz  is  quiet,  and  apparently  comprehend- 
ing. When  he  is  well  out  of  the  room,  anatol  makes 
for  the  bedroom  door  again,  and  again  listens.^  Still 
asleep ! 

FRANZ  comes  back  with  the  light  breakfast,  which 
he  puts  on  a  table  by  the  fire,  saying,  very 
comprehendingly  indeed  . . . 
FRANZ.  Two  cups,  sir.'' 

ANATOL  [with  a  look  at  him'\.  Yes.  [Then  he  can 
hear  a  bell  ring,  and  he  jumps. '\  There's  some  one  at 
the  door.  At  this  time  in  the  morning!  [franz 
goes  out  again  as  quietly,  anatol  looks  around,  out 
of  the  window,  at  the  bedroom  door,  then  doubtfully 
at  the  teacups,  and  says  .  .  .]  I  don't  feel  in  the  least 
like  getting  married. 

In  bursts  max,  m  the  best  of  spirits;   franz 
behind,   looking   as   if   he   ought   to   have 
stopped  him. 
MAX.  My  dear  fellow! 

ANATOL.  Tsch ! .  .  .  don't  talk  so  loud.  Get  an- 
other cup,  Franz. 

MAX  [at  the  table^.  Two  cups  here  already. 
ANATOL.  Get  another  cup,   Franz,  and  then  get 
out. 

108 


THE    WEDDING    MORNING 

FEANZ  obeys  with  discretion,     anatol  is  very 
fretful. 

ANATOL.  What  are  you  doing  here  at  eight  o'clock 
in  the  morning? 

MAX,  Nearly  ten! 

ANATOL.  Well .  .  .  what  are  you  doing  here  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning.? 

MAX.  It's  my  wretched  memory. 

ANATOL.  Don't  talk  so  loud! 

MAX.  I  say  .  .  .  you're  very  jumpy.  What's  the 
matter  ? 

ANATOL.  Yes  ...  I  am  very  jumpy. 

MAX.  But  not  To-day. 

ANATOL.  Oh  .  .  .  what  is  it  you  want  ? 

MAX.  You  know  your  cousin  Alma's  to  be  my 
bridesmaid  at  the  wedding.     About  her  bouquet.  .  .  . 

ANATOL  [with  rather  sulky  indifference^.  What 
about  it? 

MAX.  I  forgot  to  order  it  and  I  forgot  to  ask  her 
what  colour  she's  wearing.  What  do  you  think  .  .  . 
white  or  red  or  blue  or  green? 

ANATOL.  Certainly  not  green ! 

MAX.  Are  you  sure? 

ANATOL.  You  know  she  never  wears  green. 

MAX.  How  do  I  know? 

ANATOL.  Don't  shout !  It's  nothing  to  be  excited 
about. 

MAX  [a  little  exasperated].  Do  you  know  what 
colour  she  will  be  wearing  at  your  wedding  this 
morning? 

ANATOL.  Yes  . .  .  red  or  blue. 
103 


ANATOL 

MAX.  Which? 

ANATOL.  What  does  it  matter? 
MAX.  Damn   it  .  .  .  for  the  bouquet. 
ANATOL.  You    order    two .  .  .  you    can    wear    the 
other  in  your  hair. 

MAX.  That's  a  silly  joke. 
^^  ANATOL  \^his  head  on  his  hand^.  I'll  be  making  a 

^  sillier  in  an  hour  or  two. 

/  MAX.  You're  a  cheerful  bridegroom  ...  I  must 

say! 

ANATOL.  Well .  .  .  I've  been  very  much  upset. 
MAX.  Anatol  .  .  .  you're  hiding  something. 
ANATOL  [with  great  candour^.  Not  at  all. 

From   the  bedroom  rings  a  female  voice,  loud 
and  clear. 
THE  VOICE.  Anatol ! 

In  the  silence  that  follows  max  looks  at  anatol 
in  something  more  than  surprise. 
anatol  [casualli/^.  Excuse  me  a  minute. 

He  goes  and  gingerly  opens  the  bedroom  door. 
A  pretty  pair  of  arms  appears  and  rests  upon 
his  shoulders.  In  answer  to  the  embrace,  for  a 
moment  his  head  disappears.  He  shuts  the 
door  then  and  returns  to  his  scandalised 
friend. 
MAX.  Well  really,  Anatol! 
anatol.  Let  me  explain. 

MAX.  If  this  is  how  you  begin  your  married  life  .  .  . ! 
ANATOL.  Don't  be  an  ass. 

MAX.  I'm  not  a  moral  man  myself .  .  .  but  hang 
it  all! 

104 


THE    WEDDING    MORNING 

ANATOL.  Will  you  let  me  explain? 

MAX  [looking  at  his  zcatch^.  Hurry  up  then... 
your  wedding's  at  half-past  twelve. 

ANATOL.    So  it  is  ! 

He    sits    silent    for    a    moment;    then    slowly 
begins  .  .  . 

ANATOL.  Last  night  I  was  at  my  father-in-law's 
.  .  .  my  future  father-in-law's. 

MAX.  I  know  that.      I  was  there. 

ANATOL.  So  you  Were  ...  I  forgot.  You  were  all 
there.  You  were  all  very  lively.  There  was  lots  of 
champagne.  A  lot  of  you  drank  my  health  .  .  .  and 
Sophia's  health. 

MAX.  I  drank  your  health  .  .  .  and  her  health  .  .  . 
and  wished  you  both  happiness. 

ANATOL.  So  you  did.  Happiness!  Thank  you 
very  much. 

MAX.  You  thanked  me  last  night. 

ANATOL.  They  kept  it  up  till  past  twelve. 

MAX.  I  know.      I  kept  it  up. 

ANATOL.  They  kept  it  up  till  really  ...  I  thought 
I  was  happy. 

MAX.  Well ,  .  .  that's  enough  about  that. 

ANATOL.  That  fellow  Sophia  was  in  love  with  as  a 
girl .  .  . ! 

MAX.  Young  Ralmen.'' 

ANATOL.  Silly  3^oung  ass  .  .  .  writes  verses !  Sort 
of  fellow  who  seems  to  be  everybody's  first  love  and 
nobody's  last. 

MAX.  Hadn't  you  better  come  to  the  point? 

ANATOL.  I  didn't  mind  his  being  there  ...  it  rather 
105 


ANATOL 

amused  me.  We  broke  up  about  half-past  twelve, 
didn't  we?  I  gave  Sophia  a  kiss  .  .  .  and  she  gave 
me  a  kiss.  No  .  .  .  she  gave  me  an  icicle.  My  teeth 
just  chattered  with  it  as  I  went  downstairs. 

MAX.  Well.? 

ANATOL.  There  were  three  or  four  of  them  still  on 
the  doorstep  .  .  .  and  they  wished  me  happiness  all 
over  again.  And  Uncle  Edward  was  quite  drunk 
and  would  insist  on  kissing  me.  And  Professor 
Lippmann  sang  a  comic  song  ...  in  the  street.  Then 
Sophia's  first  love  turned  up  his  coat  collar  and  went 
off  ...  on  the  tiles.  And  then  somebody  ...  I  for- 
get who  that  was  .  .  .  said  of  course  I'd  spend  the 
night  under  Sophia's  window.  Damn  nonsense  ...  it 
was  snowing!  And  after  a  bit  they'd  all  tailed  off 
.  .  .  and  there  I  was  alone. 

MAX  [fo  express  some  sympathy^.     T-t-t! 

ANATOL.  Alone,  in  the  cold  and  the  snow!  Great 
big  flakes  .  .  .  perfectly  beastly. 

MAX.  So  what  did  you  do.'' 

ANATOL.  So  .  .  .  I  thought  I'd  go  to  the  ball  at 
the  Opera. 

MAX.  Oho! 

ANATOL.  And  why  not? 

MAX.  Now  I'm  afraid  I  understand. 

ANATOL.  Not  at  all!  There  I  stood  in  the  cold 
and  the  snow  .  . . ! 

MAX.  Teeth  still  chattering. 

ANATOL.  It  was  beastly  cold.  And  it  sud- 
denly came  over  me  .  .  .  made  me  perfectly  wretched 
.  .  .  that  I  wasn't  going  to  be  a  free  man  any  more. 

106 


THE    WEDDING    MORNING 

Never  more  a  jolly  bachelor!  Never  to  go  home 
again  without  some  one  asking  where  you've  been. 
I'd  had  my  last  night  out.  I'd  been  in  love  for  the 
last  time. 

MAX.  Get  on. 

ANATOL.  They  were  in  full  swing  at  the  Opera. 
I  watched  for  a  bit.  Oh  .  .  .  that  swish  of  a  silk 
petticoat!  And  don't  a  girl's  eyes  shine  through  a 
mask-f*  It  makes  her  neck  look  so  white.  Then  I 
just  plunged  into  it  all.  I  wanted  to  breathe  in  the 
sound  and  the  scent  of  it .  .  .  to  bathe  in  them. 

MAX  \_consulting  his  watch  again^.  Time's  getting 
on.     What  happened  then.'' 

ANATOL,.  Was  I  drunk  with  champagne  at  papa- 
in-law's  ? 

MAX.  Not  a  bit. 

ANATOL.  I  got  drunk  with  that  dancing .  . .  mad 
drunk.  It  was  m  y  Opera  ball  .  .  .  given  on  purpose 
to  say  good-bye  to  poor  bachelor  me !  I  say  .  .  . 
you  remember  Katinka? 

MAX.  Green-eyed  Katinka! 

ANATOL.  Tsch! 

MAX  points  to  where  the  voice  came  from. 

MAX.  Is  that  Katinka.? 

ANATOL.  No,  it  just  isn't  Katinka.  Green-eyes 
was  there,  though !  And  a  pretty,  dark  girl  called 
.  .  .  no,  never  you  mind  about  her.  Do  you  remember 
the  tiger-lily  girl  that  Theodore  .  .  .?  Lisa !  I  didn't 
see  Theodore  .  .  .  but  we  didn't  look  far  for  him.  I 
could  tell  them  all  through  their  masks.  I  knew 
their   voices  ...  I    knew    their    ankles.     One    girl    I 

107 


ANATOL 

wasn't  sure  about.  And  whether  I  was  running  after 
her  or  she  after  me  .  .  .  ?  But  something  in  the  way 
she  swung  her  shoulders  .  .  . !  And  we  met  and  we 
dodged,  and  at  last  she  caught  me  by  the  arm  . . . 
and  then  I  knew  her  right  enough. 

MAX.  An  old  friend.'' 

ANATOL.  Can't  you  guess.?  When  did  I  get  en- 
gaged.'' It's  not  more  than  two  or  three  months 
ago.  That  meant  the  usual  lie  .  .  .  Going  away  for 
a  bit .  .  .  back  soon. 

MAX  points  again. 

MAX.  Lona? 

ANATOL.  Tsch! 

MAX.  What .  .  .  not  even  Lona  ? 

ANATOL.  Lona  right  enough  .  .  .  don't  fetch  her  in 
yet.  We  went  and  sat  under  a  palm.  Back  again 
.  .  .  she  said.  Yes  ...  I  said.  When  ?  .  .  .  she  said. 
Not  till  last  night.  Why  haven't  you  written  .  .  . 
where  on  earth  have  you  been.''  Off  the  map  ...  I 
said  .  .  .  but  I'm  back  again,  and  I  love  you  still. 
And  don't  I  love  you  still?  .  .  .  she  said.  And  the 
waiter  brought  the  champagne.    We  were  very  happy. 

MAX.  Well  .  .  .  I'm  blessed. 

ANATOL.  Then  we  got  into  a  cab  .  .  .  just  as  we 
used  to.  She  put  her  head  on  my  shoulder.  Never 
to  part  she  said  .  .  .  and  went  to  sleep.  We  didn't  get 
back  till  seven.  She's  still  asleep  .  .  .  was,  when  you 
came. 

The  story  over,  lie  sits  contemplating  the  world 
generally  with  puzzled  distress.  max 
jumps  up. 

108 


THE    WEDDING    MORNING 

MAX.  Anatol .  .  .  come  to  your  senses. 

ANATOi..  Never  to  part !  And  I've  got  to  be  mar- 
ried at  half-past  twelve! 

MAX.  Yes  ...  to  somebody  else. 

ANATOL.  Isn't  that  just  like  life.''  It's  always 
somebody  else  one  gets  married  to. 

MAX.  You  ought  to  change  .  .  .  you've  not  much 
time. 

ANATOL.  I  suppose  I'd  better.  [He  studies  the  bed- 
room door  doubtfully,  and  then  turns  to  his  friend.^ 

ANATOL.  You  know .  .  .  looked  at  in  a  certain 
light  this  is  pathetic. 

MAX.  It's  perfectly  disgraceful. 

ANATOL.  Yes  ...  it  is  disgraceful.  But  it's  very 
pathetic,  too. 

MAX.  Never  mind  that .  .  .  you  hurry  up. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opens  and  lona  first 
puts  her  head  round  it  and  then  comes  in. 
A  handsome  shrew.  She  is  still  in  her  fancy 
hall  dress;  the  domino  thrown  over  it  mak- 
ing an  excellent  morning  wrap. 

lona.  Oh  .  .  .  it's  only  Max. 

MAX.  Only  Max. 

LONA.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  .  .  .  I'd  have  come 
in  before.  How's  Max  .  .  .  and  what  do  you  think 
of  this  ruflfian? 

MAX  [feelingly^.  I  think  that's  just  what  he  is. 

LONA.  I've  been  crying  my  eyes  out  for  him  for 
months.  And  all  the  time  he's  been  .  .  .  where  have 
you  been? 

ANATOL  [with  picturesque  vagueness'].  Over  there. 
109 


ANATOL 

LONA.  Didn't  he  write  to  you  either?  But  now 
I've  got  him  safe,  he  doesn't  get  away  again.  Never 
to  part,  darling !     Give  me  a  kiss. 

ANATOL.  No  .  .  .   really. 

LONA.  Max  doesn't  mind  {^taking  his  chin  between 

finger  and  thumb,   she  secures  her  hiss^.     What  a 

face !     Look  pleasant.     Let's  all  have  breakfast  and 

be  happy. 

1  She  settles  herself  most  domestically  at  the  little 

\  table  and  begins  to  pour  out  tea.     anatol 

looks  on  miserably. 

ANATOL.  Certainly. 

MAX.  Lona,  I'm  afraid  I  can't  stop  .  .  .  thanks  very 
much.  [Then  glancing  at  the  wretched  anatol.] 
And  I  really  don't  see  .  .  . 

LONA.  What  don't  you  see.? 

MAX.  Anatol  ought ... 

LONA.  What  ought  Anatol? 

MAX.  Anatol,  it's  high  time  that  you . . .  that 
you  .  .  . 

LONA.  High  time  for  what? 

MAX.  He  ought  to  dress. 

LONA  surveys  him  in  his  queer  costume  without 
any  disapproval. 

LONA.  What's  the  hurry?    We'll  stop  at  home  to- 
day. 
V  ANATOL.  My  dear  ...  I  am  afraid  I  can't. 

LONA.  You  can  if  you  try. 

ANATOL.  I'm  asked  out. 

LONA.  You  send  a  message  and  say  you  can't  go. 

MAX.  He  must  go. 

110 


THE    WEDDING    MORNING 

ANATOL  [^with  desperate  inspiration^.  I  am  asked 
to  a  wedding. 

LONA.  Oh  .  .  .  that  don't  matter. 

ANATOL.  But  it   does   matter.     I'm  .  .  .  what   you 
might  call  the  best  man. 

LOXA.  Is  your  bridesmaid  in  love  with  you-f* 

MAX  [^who    has    followed    these    efforts   encourag- 
agingly^.     We  won't  go  into  that. 

LONA.  Because  I  am  ...  so  he'd  much  better  stop 
at  home  with  me. 

ANATOL.  My  dear  child,  I  must  go. 

MAX.  He  really  must. 

ANATOL.  For  a  couple  of  hours. 

LONA.  Sit  down,  both  of  you.     How  many  lumps. 
Max.? 

MAX  thinks  it  tactful  to  obey. 

MAX.  Three. 

LONA  [to  ANATOL,  with  o  fond  smile'\.  How  many 
lumps,  darling.'' 

ANATOL.  I  ought  to  be  gone  now. 

LONA  {with  loving  severity'].    How  meiny  lumps.? 
ANATOL  sits  down  helplessly. 

ANATOL.  You  know  I  always  take  two. 

LONA.  Cream  or  lemon? 

ANATOL.  You  know  I  take  lemon. 

LONA.  Lemon   and   two  lumps   of   sugar.     Those 
are  his  principles. 

MAX.  I  say  ...  I  must  be  off. 

ANATOL.  No  . .  .  no  .  .  .  no. 

LONA.  Drink  your  tea  first.  Max. 

The  two  drink  their  tea,  unhappily.     Then  . . . 
Ill 


ANATOL 

ANATOL,.  Mj  dear  child  ...  I  simply  must  go  and 
change. 

LONA.  Good  goodness ! .  .  .  what  time  is  this  silly 
wedding  ? 

MAX.  Half-past  twelve. 

LONA.  Are  you  asked,  too? 

MAX.  Yes. 

LONA.  Who's  the  man? 

ANATOL.   No  one  you  know. 

LONA.  But  who?     Not  a  secret,  is  it? 

ANATOL.  The  whole  thing's  a  deadly  secret. 

LONA.  With  a  best  man  and  bridesmaids?  Non- 
sense. "^ 

ANATOL  [^expUcitl.  You  sce  .  .  .  his  people  .  .  . 

LONA.  You're  both  dear  boy»  .  .  .  but  you  are 
telling  lies. 

MAX  [with  dignity'].  I  beg  your  pardon. 

LONA.  God  knows  what  it's  all  about,  but  it 
doesn't  matter.  You  go  where  you  like,  Max . . . 
Anatol  stops  with  me. 

ANATOL  is  getting  desperate. 

ANATOL.  I  tell  you  I  can't.  The  man's  my  best 
friend.     I  must  get  him  married. 

LONA  [prettily  to  max].   Shall  I  let  him  go? 

MAX.  Dear  Lona  ...  I  think  you'd  better. 
The  tension  is  a  trifle  relieved,  but  .  . . 

LONA.  Where's  it  to  be? 

ANATOL  [very  uneasily'\.  What  do  you  want  to 
know  that  for? 

LONA.   I'd  like  to  go  and  look  on. 

ANATOL.  You  mustn't  do  that. 
112 


Hv<^ 


THE    WEDDING    MORNING 

LONA.  I  must  have  a  look  at  jour  bridesmaid, 
Anatol.  Best  men  marry  bridesmaids,  don't  they? 
I  can't  have  you  getting  married  ...  so  make  up 
your  mind  to  that.  -• 

\'AtAX.  What  would  vou  do  if  be  did? 

LONA  [with  perfect  simplicity^.  Forbid  the  banns. 
ANATOL.  Would  you  now? 

LONA.  Or  I  might  make  a  scene  at  the  church. 
MAX.  That's  commonplace  ...  I  shouldn't  do  that. 
LONA.  No .  .  .  one     ought     to     invent     something 
new. 

MAX.  Such  as  ...  ? 

LONA.  Turning  up  at  the  wedding  .  .  .  dressed  like 
a  bride  too !     That'd  be  striking. 
MAX  [drily^.  Very!     I  must  go. 

His  decisive  getting  up  encourages  anatol. 
ANATOL.  Look     here,     Lona  ...  I     simply     must 
change.     I  shall  be  late ! 

In  comes  franz  "with  a  bouquet  swathed  in  its 
tissue  paper. 
FRANZ.  The  flowers,  sir. 
LONA.  What  flowers? 

Wherever  anatol  may  wish  his  man,  he  does  not      (  , 
send  him  away,  so  franz,  though  not  with- 
out a  sly  look  at  lona,  repeats  politely  .  .  . 
FEANZ.  The  flowers,  sir. 

ANATOL  talx'es  them  silently,  and  franz  departs. 
LONA.  Still  got  Franz,  have  you?     You  said  you 
were  going  to  get  rid  of  him. 

MAX.  And  I  almost  think  you'd  better,  Anatol. 
LONA.  Let's  see. 

113 


.;; 


ANATOL 

MAX.  It's  the  bouquet  for  his  bridesmaid. 

LONA  detaches  one  wrap  of  the  paper.     Orange 
y    blossoms! 
LONA.  It's  a  bride's  bouquet ! 
ANATOL  l^with  great  readiness^.  Well,  I  say  ...  if 
they  haven't  sent  the  wrong  one !   Franz  .  .  .  Franz ! 
He  carries  it  off. 
MAX.  And  the  wretched  bridegroom  has  got  his! 

ANATOL  serenely  returns. 
ANATOL.  I've  sent  Franz  back  with  it. 
MAX.  And  I  really  must  go. 

He    kisses    lona's    hand   and   is   off.     anatol 
catches  him  half  through  the  door. 
ANATOL.  What  the  devil  shall  I  do.f* 
MAX.  Confess. 
ANATOL.  How  can  I.'' 
MAX.  I'll  come  back  soon. 
ANATOL.  Do  .  .  .  for  goodness'  sake. 
MAX,  But  what  colour  will  your  cousin  be  in.'' 
ANATOL.  Blue  ...  or  red. 
MAX.  Damn! 

ANATOL  most  rjmwillvngly  shuts  the  door  on  him, 
for  no  sooner  has  he  than  lona  is  round 
his  neck. 
lona.  Thank  goodness  he's  gone  .  .  .  darling. 
ANATOL.  Darling! 
LONA.  Be  nicer  than  that ! 
ANATOL.  I  said  Darling. 
LONA.  Must  you  go  to  this  silly  wedding? 
ANATOL.  I'm  afraid  I  must. 
LONA.  Shall  I  drive  with  you  to  the  church? 
114 


THE    WEDDING    MORNING 

ANATOL.  Better  not.     I'll  see  you  in  the  evening. 
You've  to  go  to  the  theatre. 

LONA.  I'll  send  and  say  I'm  ill. 
ANATOL.   I    wouldn't.     I'll    come    and    fetch    you. 
Now  I  must  dress.     Lord  .  .  .  look    at    the    time ! 
Franz!  Franz!  [franz  is  there.^      Have  you  put  out 
my  things.'' 

FRANZ.  Your  wedding  things,  sir.'' 
ANATOL.     [^very    steadily^.  Yes  .  .  .  the    things    in 
which  I  always  go  to  weddings. 
FEANZ.  I  will  see  to  it,  sir. 

ANATOL.  After  the  theatre  then  .  .  .  that's  settled. 
LONA.  And  I  thought  we'd  have  such  a  jolly  day. 
ANATOL.  Don't  be   childish.     Jolly   days  have  to 
give  way  to  more  important  matters. 

LONA  is  round  his  neck  again. 
LONA.  I  love  you  dreadfully.  I  don't  know  what's 
more  important  than  that. 

ANATOL  [as  he  removes  her^.    Then  you'll  have  to 
learn. 
FKANZ  passes  through  from  the  bedroom  saying .  .  . 
FRANZ.  Everything's  ready,  sir. 
ANATOL.  Thank  you.     You've  a  lot  to  learn  yet. 
Into  the  bedroom  he  goes,  and  his  talk — or  rather 
his  shouting — from  there  is  muffled  by  the 
changing  of  vest  and  shirt,  and  punctuated 
by  the  tying  of  ties  and  slipping  in  of  studs 
and    the    brushing    of    hair,     lona,    left 
alone,  twists  discontentedly  about  the  roojn. 
LONA.  Are  you  really  going  to  change.? 
115 


ANATOL 

ANATOL.  I   couldn't   go    to   a   wedding   like  this, 
could  I? 

LONA.  Must  you  go  ? 

ANATOL.  Don't  let's  begin  it  all  over  again. 
LONA.   I  shall  see  you  this  evening? 
ANATOL.  After  the  theatre. 
LONA.  Don't  be  late. 

ANATOL  Iblandlt/^.  Late!     Why  should  I  be  late? 
LONA.  You  kept  me  waiting  an  hour  once. 
ANATOL.     Did  I?     I  dare  say  I  did. 
LONA  is  still  on  the  prowl. 
LONA.     Anatol .  .  .  you've  got   a  new  picture. 
ANATOL.  Yes  ...  do  you  like  it? 
LONA.  What  do  I  know  about  pictures? 
ANATOL.  It's  quite  a  good  one. 
LONA.  Did  you  bring  it  back  with  you? 
ANATOL  l^puzzled^.  Bring  it  back! 
LONA.  From  Avhere  you  went  away  to. 
ANATOL.  Of    course  .  .  .  from  where  I  went  away 
to !     No  ...  it  was  a  present. 

Silence  for  a  moment.     A  shade  of  half-angry 
<i^  cunning  falls  on  lona's  face. 

LONA.  Anatol. 
ANATOL.  What  is  it? 
LONA.  Where  did  you  go? 

ANATOL.    I  told  you. 

LONA.  You  didn't. 
ANATOL.  I   did  .  .  .  last   night. 
LONA.  I've  forgotten. 
ANATOL.  I  went  to  Bohemia. 
LONA.  Why  Bohemia? 

116 


THE    WEDDING    MORNING 

ANATOL.  Why  not? 

LONA.  Were  you  shooting? 

ANATOL.  Yes  .  .  .  rabbits. 

LONA.  For  three  months? 

ANATOL.  Every  day. 

It  sounds  as  if  he  were  rearing  slightly  under 
this  spur  of  cross-examination. 

LONA.  Why  didn't  you  come  and  say  good-bye  to 
me  before  you  went? 

ANATOL.  I  just  thought  I  wouldu't. 

LONA.  Tried  to  give  me  the  shp,  didn't  you? 

ANATOL  [ironically  bland^.     No  .  .  .  no  .  .  .  no  .  .  . 
no  .  . .  no  .  .  . 

LONA.  You  did  try  once. 

ANATOL.  I  tried. 

LONA   [sharply^.  What's  that? 

ANATOL.   I  said  I  t  r  i  e  d.     I    tried    hard  .  .  .  but 
it  didn't  come  off. 

LONA.  I  should  think  not  .  .  .  and  it's  not  likely  to. 

ANATOL.  Ha  ha ! 

LONA.  What  did  you  say? 

ANATOL.  I  said  Ha  ha. 

LONA.  It  isn't  funny.     Glad  enough  to  come  back 
to  me  that  time  .  .  .  weren't  you  ? 

ANATOL.  That  time. 

LONA.   So  you  are  this  time.     Just  a  little  bit  in 
love  with  me  .  .  .  aren't  you  ? 

ANATOL.  Worse  luck. 

LONA.  What? 

ANATOL.  Worse  luck. 

117 


^ 


ANATOL 

LONA.  Yes  .  .  .  shout  it  from  the  next  room.     You 
dare  say  that  to  my  face? 

ANATOL  sticks  vouud  the  door  a  head  undergo- 
ing a  hairbrush. 
ANATOL.  Worse  luck ! 

LONA  makes  for  it,  but  it  disappears  and  the 
door  closes.     She  calls  through  the  crack. 
LONA.  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Anatol? 

It  is  getting  to  be  rather  angry  chaff,  this. 
ANATOL.  Things  can't  go  on  hke  this  for  ever. 
LONA.  What? 

ANATOL.  They  can't  go  on  for  ever. 
LONA.  Can't  they?     Ha  ha! 
ANATOL.   What? 

LONA,  with  some  violence,  tugs  the  door  open. 
LONA.  I  said  Ha  ha. 
ANATOL.   Shut  the  door  .  .  .  shut  the  door. 

He  slams  it  to. 
LONA.  No,  my  darhng  .  .  .  you  don't  get  rid  of  me 
in  a  hurry. 

ANATOL.  Think  not? 
LONA.  I'm  sure  not. 
ANATOL.  Quite  sure? 
LONA.  Quite  .  .  .  quite  .  .  .  quite  sure. 
ANATOL.  You  can't  hang  round  my  neck  for  ever. 
LONA.  We'll  see  about  that. 
ANATOL.  Don't  you  be  silly. 
LONA.  Do  you  see  me  giving  you  up? 
ANATOL.  When  you  can't  help  it. 
LONA.  When  will  that  be? 
118 


THE    WEDDING    MORNING 

ANATOL.  When  I  get  married. 

The  lady,  whose  eyes  are  'flashing  now,  begins 
to  drum  the  door  with  her  fingers. 
LONA.  And  when  will  that  be  .  .  .  my  precious  ? 
ANATOL  [^unkindly  mimicking^.  Soon  .  .  .  my  pre- 
cious. 

liONA.  How  soon.P 

The  drumming  grows  louder. 
ANATOL.  Don't    bang    on    the    door.     This    time 
next  year  I  may  be  quite  an  old  married  man. 
LONA.  Fool! 

ANATOL.  Suppose   I  get  married  in   a  month  or 
two.'* 

LONA.  Some  one  simply  waiting  to  marry  you? 
ANATOL.  There  is  .  .  .  at  this  very  moment. 
LONA.  In  a  month  or  two.? 
ANATOL.  Or  even  less. 

LONA  laughs  with  great  derision. 
ANATOL.  You  needn't  laugh.     I'll  be  married  in  a 
week. 

LONA  still  laughs. 
ANATOL.  You  needn't  laugh,  Lona ! 

LONA  tumbles  herself  on  the  sofa,  she  is  laughing 
so  much.  And  then  anatol  walks  in,  sprucely 
dressed:  coated,   hatted,   and  gloved  for  his 
wedding;  very  self-possessed,  moreover,  now. 
ANATOL.  I  said  you  need  not  laugh. 
LONA.  When  are  you  going  to  be  married.'' 
ANATOL.  At  half-past  twelve. 

She  stops  very  short  in  her  laughter. 
LONA.  What.? 

119 


ANATOL 

ANATOi,.  At  half-past  twelve,  my  dear. 
LONA.  Anatol,  don't  be  silly. 

ANATOL,.  I  am  perfectly  serious.     I  am  going  to 
be  married  at  half-past  twelve  to-day. 

By  this  she  is  taking  it  in  and  her  hreath  is 
leaving  her. 
LONA.  Are  you  .  .  .  ? 
ANATOL.  Franz ! 

FRANZ  is  at  the  door, 
FRANZ,   Sir? 

ANATOL.  Bring  those  flowers. 
LONA.  Anatol .  .  . ! 

FRANZ  brings  in  the  orange  blossoms  which  were 
not  sent  back,  lona  understands  now.  She 
makes  a  grab  at  them,  franz  is  too  quick 
for  her  and  secures  them  to  anatol,  and  then 
departs  again,  suppressing  a  grin. 
lona.  It's  true. 
anatol   [coolly^.  Quite. 

But  LONA  is  not  to  be  conquered  with  coolness 
now.  It  seems  that  she  is  endowed  with  the 
very  rare  faculty  of  losing  her  temper.  She 
suddenly  makes  for  anatol  and  the  bouquet 
with  such  complete  abandonment  of  the  con- 
ventions of  civilisation  that,  with  no  manly 
dignity  at  all,  he  bolts  from  her. 
anatol.  What  are  you  up  to .'' 
lona.  You  beast .  .  .  you  beast. 

IVs  the  bouquet  seems  most  to  excite  her  and  it's 
that  she''s  after,    anatol,  other  methods  of  de- 
fending it  failing,  jumps  on  a  chair  at  last 
120 


THE    WEDDING    MORNING 

and  holds  it  above  his  head,  at  which  moment 
MAX   arrives   back   dressed  for   the   wedding 
too  and  with  his  bouquet:  pink  roses. 
ANATOL.  Here  .  .  .  Max  .  .  .  help  ! 

The  ever-obliging  max  incautiously  comes  near. 

Pink  roses  are  better  than  nothing  to  lona,  and 

with  one  snatch  she  has  them  from  him  and 

with  half-a-dozen  pulls  she  has  them  in  pieces 

and  under  her  stamping  feet,  max  is  in  agony. 

MAX.  Lona  .  .  .  don't    do    it !      It's    my    bouquet ! 

\^He  surveys  the  wreckage. '\   Well .  .  .  now  what  shall 

I  do? 

The  lady  having  sated  her  natural  lust  for  the 
destruction   of   something — anything;    bursts 
into  violent  tears,  and  abandons  herself  to  the 
sofa.     ANATOL.  addresses   the  situation,   still 
standing  on  the  chair. 
ANATOL.   Oh  .  .  .   she    has    been    riling   me !      Now 
start  crying,  of  course.     I  told  you  not  to  laugh! 
Said  I  daren't  run  away  from  her  .  .  .  said  I  daren't 
get  married.     So  now  I  shall  .  .  .  just  to  spite  her. 
In  pursuance  of  which  he  gets  off  the  chair.  But 
LONA  has  another  fit  of  fury  , . . 
LONA.  Sneak  !     Liar ! 

So  on  he  gets  again.     Again  she  turrhles  down 
exhausted.      Poor    Max    meanwhile    collects 
the  remnants  of  the  roses. 
MAX.  I  say  .  .  .  look  at  my  flowers. 
LONA.  I  thought  it  was  his.    I  don't  care.    You're 
as  bad  as  he  is! 

121 


ANATOL 

ANATOL.  Do  be  reasonable. 

LONA  [flinging'  her  wrongs  to  'heaven'\.  Reasonable! 
When  you  treat  me  like  this !  But  you  wait !  I'll 
show  you !    You'll  see ! 

She  jumps  up  and  makes  for  the  door.    By  good 
luck  MAX  is  in  the  way. 
ANATOL.  Where  are  you  going. ? 
LONA.  You'll  soon  see.    You  let  me  go! 
MAX  [his  hack  to  the  door  and  holding  tight  to  the 
handle^.  Lona  .  .  .  what  are  you  up  to.? 
LONA.  You  let  me  go!    You  let  me  go! 
ANATOL.  Be  reasonable. 
liONA.  You  won't  .  .  .  won't  you ! 

She  then  proceeds  to  wreck  the  room.     The  tea- 
pot goes  into  the  fire  and  the  teacups  out  of 
the  window.     The  table  goes  over  and  so  do 
the    chairs.      A   cigar  box  smashes  the  new 
picture  and  cushions  fly  around,     max  and 
ANATOL    do    nothing.     What   can   they   do? 
Her  work   accomplished,    the   lady   has   vio- 
lent hysterics.     When  the  tumult  has  a  little 
subsided  says  anatol  .  .  . 
ANATOL.  Oh  ...  I  say !     Why   get  married  when 
you  can  have  all  the  comforts  of  home  without  it.f* 
And  they  gaze  at  the  patient  awhile. 
ANATOL.   She's  getting  quieter. 
max.  But  we  must  go.     And  look  at  my  flowers! 

FRANZ  comes  in  to  announce  .  .  . 
FRANZ.  The  carriage  is  at  the  door,  sir. 
And  goes  out  again. 
122 


THE    WEDDING    MORNING 

ANATOL.  The  carriage!     What  am  I  to  do? 

He  sits  beside  the  sobbing  lona  and  takes  her 
hand,     max  sits  on  the  other  side,  and  takes 
her  other  hand. 
MAX.  Lona !  \_he  adds  over  the  top  of  her  head  to 
anatol].   Go  along  .  .  .  I'll  put  it  right  somehow. 
ANATOi,.  I  really  must.     Poor  girl ...  I  can't .  .  . 
He  is  obviously  melting  towards  the  sobbing  lona. 
MAX.  You  go  along. 

ANATOL.  Are  you  sure  you  can  manage  her.? 
MAX.  Yes  .  .  .  I'll  follow  you.     Watch  me  when  I 
get  there.     I'll  wink  if  it's  all  right. 

ANATOL.  I    don't    like    it .  . .  poor    child.       She 
might  .  .  . 

MAX  envisages  new  complications. 
MAX.  Will  you    go  ? 
ANATOL.  I'd  better! 

He  gets  to  the  door.  His  heart  melts  again 
towards  the  poor  thing  who  has  indeed  in  the 
last  few  minutes  sacrificed  much  to  her  love 
for  him.  He  comes  back  and  kisses  the  top 
of  her  head.  Then  he  goes  to  his  wedding. 
MAX,  left  alone  with  her,  perseveringly 
strokes  the  hand  he  holds.  She  sobs  on. 
MAX.  Ahum ! 

liONA  looks  up. 
LONA.  Where's  he  gone.'' 
MAX  [securing  the  other  hand^.  Now  .  .  .  Lona! 

Only  just  in  time,  for  she  jumps  up. 
LONA.  Where's  he  gone? 
MAX.  You'd  never  catch  him. 
123 


ANATOL 

LONA.  Yes,  I  win. 

MAX.  Lona  .  . .  you  don't  want  to  make  a  scandal. 

LONA.  Yes,  I  do.     Where  is  the  wedding  .f* 

MAX.  Never  mind. 

She  tries  to  pull  away. 

LONA.  I'm  going  there ! 

MAX.  No,  you're  not.     What  good  would  it  do? 

LONA.  To  be  treated  like  this ! 

MAX.  Doesn't  it  always  happen.? 

LONA.  Be  quiet  with  your  beastly  philosophy. 

MAX.  If  you  weren't  in  such  a  temper  you'd  see 
that  you'd  only  get  laughed  at  for  your  pains. 

LONA  l^viciouslij^.  On  the  wrong  side  of  their 
mouths ! 

MAX.  Think  now .  .  .  there  are  lots  of  good  fish  in 
the  sea. 

LONA.  That  shows  how  much  you  know  about  me. 

MAX.  Suppose  he  were  dead  or  gone  abroad  ?  Sup- 
pose you'd  really  lost  him  .  .  .  and  no  help  for  it. 

LONA.  What  d'you  mean  by  that? 

MAX.  It's  not  so  much  you  that  he's  treating 
badly  .  . .  Suppose  he  leaves  her  some  day  .  .  .  ! 
Wait  and  see. 

She  has  calmed  a  little  to  the  influence  of  his 
smooth  voice.  And  now  her  face  lights  up 
with  the  wildest  triumphant  happiness. 

LONA.  Oh  ...  if  I  thought  he  would ! 
MAX  lets  her  go. 

MAX.  That's  nice  of  you. 

LONA.  Let  me  just  get  a  bit  of  my  own  back! 

MAX.  Hell  knows  no  fury  like  a  woman  scorned. 
124 


THE    WEDDING    MORNING 

LONA.  No,  it  doesn't .  .  .  does  it? 
MAX.  That  is   heroic   of  you.      And  while  you're 
waiting,  can't  you  avenge  your  whole  sex  on  every 
man  you  meet.'' 
LONA.   I  will. 

She  is  restored  to  sanity  and  self-respect,     max 
looks  at  his  watch  rather  anxiously. 
max.  Now  I've  just  time  to  take  you  home  in  a 
cab.      [^He  adds  half  to   himself.^      If  I  don't  .  .  . 
catastrophe  for  sure !     [^He  offers  her  his  arm. ^     Say 
good-bye  to  this  happy  home. 
LONA.  Not  good-bye. 

MAX.  Till  you  come  back  a  goddess  of  vengeance 
. . .  though  you're  really  a  rather  silly  woman.     Not 
but  what  that  answers  the  purpose  as  a  rule. 
LONA.  For  the  present.  .  . . 

Most  dramatically,  with  flashing  eyes  and  curl- 
ing lip  she  goes  off  with  him,  leaving  the 
wrecked  room. 


125 


^ 


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